


The Roaring Fires of Tevinter

by transdisneyprince



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Domestic Disputes, Drinking, Explicit Language, Explicit sex acts, F/M, Gambling, Iron Bull/Dorian sex, Iron Bull/Krem sex, Krem/Isabela sex, M/M, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Other, POV Krem, Permanent Injury, Public Blow Jobs, Slavery, Slow Burn, Smoking psychedelics, Swearing, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, Trans Character Outted, Trans Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:30:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 61
Words: 67,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transdisneyprince/pseuds/transdisneyprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Skyhold is attacked by an army of mercenaries, Krem joins up with Hawke, Fenris, and Varric to go fight the new Arishok in Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Burning the Candle at Both Ends

“It’s fine…! Don’t touch it...! _Aaargh_!” Krem was sitting backwards in his chair at the Skyhold tavern, doubled over the back of it. Iron Bull was standing over him, applying a generous amount of high dragon saliva to Krem’s upper back.

Dorian was pacing in front of the two mercenaries, stroking his mustache either in thought or out of anxiety. This early in the afternoon the tavern was practically empty.

Their four-man team had been deployed to the Hinterlands to ambush a band of rogue mages. But their cover had been blown at the camp before the fight had even begun and Krem had suffered a blistering burn below his right shoulder.

“Before today I would have thought that my men were smart enough not to drop their pants in enemy territory,” Bull grumbled, his disapproval cutting deeper than the mage’s fire. “The next time you need to take a piss, go in the damn chamber pot.”

Krem was having trouble catching his breath from the excruciating pain, but he wasn’t about to lose any more face than he had to in front of Bull. 

“Sorry if my aim isn’t quite as good as yours, Chief!” Krem said, exasperated. “We weren’t all endowed with giant, swinging Qunari-- Argh! _Fuck_!”

Dorian smirked, stifling a chuckle. The boy had plenty of spunk, he’d give him that. But his Tal-Vashoth boyfriend seemed to be in no mood for snark. Bull didn’t give his men a lot of room to make mistakes. But Dorian knew that carelessness is what gets throats slit and soldiers killed. Bull knew it even better than him.

“A bottle of high dragon saliva like that one went for a hundred sovereigns the last time I was in Orlais,” Dorian said, shaking his head. He wasn’t surprised that the Inquisition was stocked with it, but it was a lot of gold to be paid for a rookie mistake. “I could have bought new robes held together with Royale Sea Silk with all that gold.”

“From some second-rate Orlesian tailor? That’d be a _real_ waste of coin.” Krem gave a small laugh, but Bull began to massage his back with more pressure than necessary and he groaned again. The high dragon saliva was slowly pulling the heat out of Krem’s burn, but it wasn’t a painless process.

“I haven’t trained you every day for the past eight years so that I could pull your narrow Tevinter ass out of the fire every time we have to knock together some heads, Krem.”

Krem coughed in a way that sounded vaguely like a laugh. “Yeah, it’s not _my_ narrow Tevinter ass that you’re interested in, is it?  _Argh_!”

Dorian turned on his heel to hide his reddening cheeks. But it wasn’t from the implication. The thought of Krem’s dark, bare ass had infiltrated his thoughts and Dorian found himself astounded at how flustered it made him.

“I- I have to go,” Dorian said, making beeline for the exit. “You know where to find me, Bull.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bull droned, becoming increasingly annoyed.

Krem rested his chin on his arms, slightly trembling from the cooling agent of the natural medicine. 

“You know,” Krem said in a lower, softer voice. “I’d probably be dead by now if you hadn’t found me.”

Bull gave a harsh bark of a laugh. “ _Probably_? Tell that to my missing left eye.”

Krem couldn’t help but smile. “We should have kept it. Put it in a jar.”

Bull gave a tired groan. He could never stay angry at Krem for long. “I was gonna go to Dorian’s tonight, but I now need to stay at the barracks and keep that burn from getting infected.”

“I think I’ll be fine while you and Dorian do… whatever it is you do.”

Bull applied another generous gob of high dragon saliva to Krem's injured back.

"Well," Bull mused. "Last night I tied him up and he begged for my giant, swinging Qunari--"

“ _Alright!_ " Krem shouted, covering his ears. "I _really_ didn’t need to know that, Chief!”


	2. Of Looking a Gift Horse in the Mouth

Iron Bull knew that it would be a long night. Burns pose a lot of possible complications on their own, but mage fire is especially brutal. It’s nothing like natural stove fire—it burns both hotter and quicker through whatever isn’t flame resistant. And Krem’s human skin, though darkened from constant exposure to the sun, hadn’t stood a chance.

The binder that Krem had been wearing at the time of the attack was a complete loss. Leliana had been tipped off that the mages would be using ice magic and Krem had prepared by wearing a cold-resistant binder. The fire easily burned through it, but luckily it wasn’t flammable enough to spread across the fabric. The Inquisitor had heard Krem’s screams and decapitated the mage with an arrow before he could charge another attack. Her intervention probably saved Krem’s life. Again.

Bull pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep, calming breath. ‘vints, mages, and demons all doing their damnedest to fuck up his life and everyone in it.

Krem was sleeping on his stomach on the lower level of a bunked cot. The injured man gave a shuddering, urgent sound and Bull was at his feet in an instant.

“Krem, we ran out of medicine but Varric’s gonna go get some water from a nearby creek.” Bull glanced out of a nearby window and saw nothing but inky darkness. The dwarf had left well over an hour ago and should have been back by now. Bull turned back to Krem, the man’s back rising and falling with shallow breaths. An angry red band streaked across his shoulder blade and layers of skin had been shorn from his back. Bull forced himself to not look away from it. “Should be nice and cold so look forward to that.”

Krem tried to say something, but it was in a ghost of a whisper. Even in the abandoned barracks, Bull couldn’t make intelligible words out of it.

“What was that, Krem?” Bull asked softly, patiently as he kneeled by the bed. “What do you need?” He pressed the back of his spade-like hand to Krem’s forehead. It gave off almost as much heat as the burn injury itself. “Damn it,” Bull growled. “Where the hell is that—“

A loud cry of work horses could be heard outside and Bull went out the open door in four great strides. Varric dismounted from one of the horses and Bull saw that the trained beast had been pulling a sled with a barrel tied down to it with thick ropes. Bull took the iron lantern that was hanging from the horse's saddle and held it up to provide them with light.

“Have I told you how much I hate horses lately, Tiny?” Varric asked with a huff as he tugged at the knotted ropes. “Because I do. But apparently our species share a dislike of wolves howling a stone’s throw from where you’re filling a barrel with water in the middle of the night. ”

Bull lifted the head of the barrel and saw that it was full of clean, clear water. He gave a sigh of relief and replaced the lid tightly.

“Thanks, Varric,” he said. “Krem isn’t holding up. I think his burn is infected.”

“Here, let me help you carry that,” Varric said, tossing the ropes aside.

“I’ve got it,” Bull said, effortlessly hefting the thing onto one massive shoulder.

When they went inside Krem looked up at them with dark, tired eyes.

“Please tell me… that there’s mead in that cask,” he said with a forced smile.

“Not this time, big guy,” Varric said. “Just lots of cold, refreshing water.”

Bull hung the lantern from a bare coat stand and placed the barrel on the wooden floor.

The water sloshing inside made Krem realize that his throat was bone dry. He hugged his pillow and grinned past the pain.

“Sounds good to me.”

Varric dampened some cotton rags and laid them on Krem’s burn to bring out the heat. Bull filled a mug with water and Krem guzzled it down, spilling a good bit of it onto the floorboards, and then dumped the rest of it over his head.

“Hey, easy!” Varric chided him goodheartedly. “I fought off demons to get that water. Don’t go wasting it on the floor.”

“I thought you said it was wolves,” Bull said dryly.

“Demons, wolves… It was dark, okay?”

“Thanks, Tethras,” Krem said. “I owe you a drink. Or maybe ten. Something strong.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Varric said. “This is bound to be one of your least favorite nights to remember. We don’t have any more medicine so all you get is water, but I have a contact bringing more. He should be here tomorrow, and he says he brings gifts.”

Krem hid his face in his pillow.

“I’ll make it up to you guys. I mean it.”

“You can start by getting back on your feet,” Bull said, his stern, gravelly voice filling the room. “Don’t want you getting flabby on me.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” Krem said, his tired voice muffled and fading. “I’ll… get right on that.”

Varric walked towards the door motioned for Bull to follow him.

“Come on, Tiny," Varric said. "I know it’s a murky concept for you, but the kid needs to take it easy. You do, too. I’ll watch over him tonight.”

Bull spared one last look at Krem who was decidedly fast asleep and grudgingly withdrew from the barracks. His thoughts went straight to Dorian.


	3. Of Smoke and Mirrors

The dog days of Parvulis brought along cloudless days and sweltering heat. The morning had dawned and Krem awoke to the fortress coming alive with fighting spirit. Skyhold was loud with the sounds of singing steel swords and guttural growls of restless sparring soldiers. After a few moments of shaking the sleep from his mind, Krem’s muscles were itching to join them. As he pulled himself from his cot, his scorched back started to sting smartly from the effort.

“ _Fasta vaas_ …” he swore in the old tongue of the Tevinter Imperium. Just removing himself from the bed had caused him to break out in a cold sweat. Krem realized that his fever still hadn’t broken. It frustrated him beyond Ferelden words. He had expected to at least have a clear mind by now.

“Dorian says that too sometimes.”

Krem gasped without thinking, spinning his head to find Varric sitting back in a nearby chair, watching him.

The dwarf was smoking something from his pipe. It smelled like Elfroot. Krem was amazed that he hadn’t detected the smell immediately. He enjoyed a good pint a lot more than smoking, but had learned the scent of the psychoactive plant since he met Skinner. It smelled distinctly of oily herbs and gurn musk.

“Dammit, Tethras,” Krem said, winded. “How long—? Have you been sitting there all night?” His mind was sluggish and on edge. It quite possibly could have been from breathing in the fumes from Varric’s pipe all night.

“Well, I had to go outside to take a leak at some point, but luckily _I_ didn’t get attacked for it,” Varric said.

Krem shook his head, chest pumping, trying to bring clean oxygen to his lungs.

“Where is he?”

Varric took his time in taking a long drag from his pipe and exhaled three tight green rings of smoke.

“Can you be more specific?”

“ _The Chief_ ,” Krem snapped, too impatient and irritated for Varric’s silver tongue and mellowed brain. “Where’s the Chief?”

“Somewhere with Dorian, I’m sure,” Varric answered. “You know, you talk in your sleep.”

He expected the first answer, but the second, unwarranted statement made Krem’s face grow warm with sudden embarrassment.

“Oh, don’t get all flustered, big guy,” Varric slurred. “You didn’t say anything _too_ incriminating.”

Krem gave a huffy growl under his breath and stumbled his way towards the door. It was like Varric was a completely different person when he was leveled. He much preferred Varric with a few drinks in him.

“For what it’s worth!” Varric called after him. ”I think Josephine would love to hear about your little wet dream about her!”

“ _Shut up_!” Krem shouted and slammed the door behind him.


	4. Of Sex and Desire

“Don’t worry about it, Kadan. If you keep quiet no one will hear us.”

“We’re thirty paces from the courtyard! Of course someone will—“

Bull silenced Dorian with a firm kiss on the mouth and Dorian melted into it before pushing the Qunari back, unable to keep from laughing.

“You unscrupulous demon,” Dorian teased and kissed him back.

Bull shielded them from view with his huge frame, but anyone walking past was sure to realize what they were doing, tittering in a shady corner of Skyhold like a couple of schoolgirls.

“I wish that work didn’t get in the way of this,” Dorian said, running his hands over the plains of Bull’s rippling chest. “I do enjoy our little… _get-togethers_.”

“Anything for you, Kadan,” Bull said, cupping Dorian’s firm ass and pulling the human against his own waist.

“Funny you should say that,” Dorian said, reveling in the hard embrace. “My name-day is in two days. And I never receive gifts from back home.”

Bull smirked, lifting up Dorian and letting the man’s back go flush against the stone wall. Dorian readily wrapped his legs around Iron Bull and covered his pectorals with light, fleeting kisses.

“Just… don’t leave any marks,” Bull said nervously. “The last time you gave me a hickey Krem accused me of leaving him behind on a mission to the Fallow Mire. Thought it was from swamp leeches.”

But Dorian’s kisses only became more intense.

“Swamp leeches?" he asked. "My haunting handsomeness notwithstanding, he wasn’t far off the mark, was he?”

For all Bull knew, Krem was still bedridden. Krem had never walked in on Bull and Dorian while they were being intimate, but Bull was always careful to cover his tracks when they did. In this case, however, it was a safe bet that Krem was still on the other side of Skyhold. And Varric was still watching him; like a mother dragon watches her young. Then again, Varric was really more like a hairy nug and Krem was definitely more like a Mabari. Iron Bull cut his eyes to the side, pulling away slightly from Dorian without letting the ‘vint fall.

“Can we not talk about Krem while you’re kissing me with that ticklish mustache of yours?” Bull could feel Dorian smiling against his skin.

“I didn’t know Qunari were ticklish. You hide it well.”

Krem’s recovery would probably take at least a couple more days—a week, tops. Bull was worried that all this good weather would go to waste if they couldn’t even train in it.

“So… name-day, huh?” Bull said, slowly falling out of the mood the more he thought of Krem. “What did you have in mind?”

Dorian withdrew from Bull’s chest and thought about the question. He had given it some thought, and had an idea of sorts, but Dorian wasn’t sure if all parties in mind would be okay with it.

“Maybe… a bottle of Qunari cologne perhaps?” he said, distracting from what he truly had in mind. “Do your kind even have perfumers? I can’t see a giant ox-man taking it upon himself to distill the essence of flower petals into little bottles.”

Bull gave a deep sound from the back of his throat and kissed Dorian’s bare neck.

“Call me ox-man again. Slower this time. It’s kind of hot when you say it.”

Then a familiar voice from behind him: “Oh, Krem! There you are! I was looking for you!”

Bull detached himself from Dorian with sudden, ferocious speed. He turned himself around fast enough for Dorian to lose his grip on Bull and awkwardly slide to the ground, cursing as he went. Josephine was standing with her back to Bull, talking to Krem across the courtyard. So much for his mischievous rendezvous with Dorian.

Bull suddenly felt a hand close around his cock and his body stiffened.

“I want you in my mouth,” Dorian said, low and heated. “Like you said, if we keep quiet no one will hear us.”

Dorian went for the clasp on Bull’s belt and Bull blindly pushed Dorian's hands away. Bull still had his good eye focused on Josephine. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he knew that Krem had to be standing right there talking with her.

“That blighted little dwarf couldn’t even--!”

In a matter of moments, Dorian had his mouth around Bull’s girth and had started furiously, hastily pumping away at it. Bull’s full attention snapped back to Dorian, shuddering at the wet warmth around the head of his cock. 

“Oh… _fuck_ yeah…”

Dorian stroked the base of Bull’s flaccid cock with both hands, taking in as much of Bull’s size as he could get down his throat. Bull could feel himself growing hard and frantically trusted into Dorian’s mouth to speed up the process.

“Moan like an Antivan bitch if you want my dick in your throat.”

Dorian eagerly did as he was told, moaning forcefully with each thrust. The slight vibrating sensation made Bull throw back his head, groaning with pleasure.

“—cum on that perfect Tevinter face—Oh… _fuck_ yes…!”

Bull pulled out and aimed a load right on Dorian’s shapely mustache, rubbing it out right above his upper lip.

“You like that?” Bull asked, breathing hot, heavy breaths.

Dorian, down on his knees, looked up at Bull with a shit-kicking grin.

"You know that I do," he said, wiping off the load with his thumb. “Well, that was quick,” he said, sliding the messy thumb into his mouth and savoring the taste. “I didn’t realize you needed that so badly or I would have done it sooner.”

Bull was afraid to look around, but did so cautiously. Josephine was out of sight and so was Krem. He breathed a momentary sigh of relief. With any luck they had gone completely unnoticed and Krem had followed Josephine some place else.

“How about we go back to my place and do it again?” Dorian suggested as Bull pulled up his pants.

“Yeah,” Bull said anxiously, fumbling with his clothes. “Let’s get far, _far_ away from here.”


	5. Of Taking Liberties

“There is someone who wishes very much to speak with you, Krem,” Josephine said as they climbed the steps that led into the castle. “His name is Fenris. He provided no family name, which I found somewhat odd. But his request for you _was_ quite urgent.”

Krem had wanted to start his training with Bull as soon as possible, but just as he had located the Chief he had been ambushed by Josephine. Although he figured that if it meant spending time with Josephine then it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

"By the way," she continued with an edge of uncertainty. "I heard of your... unfortunate encounter with the rogue mage. Are you feeling better?"

Krem rubbed at his eyes to hide his embarrassment. "Yeah," he said around the lump in his throat. "Thank you for your concern, Lady Josephine. I'm sure it's not nearly as bad as what you've been told. Rumors tend to get out of hand."

Josephine chuckled under her breath. "Yes, I suppose so."

Krem loudly cleared his throat to ease his nervousness, only wanting to change the subject of discussion. “So um... This Fenris guy... Is he Varric’s friend?” he asked amiably. “The one who was supposed to arrive at Skyhold today?”

“Yes," she cheerfully answered, pretending not to take notice of his diversionary tactics. "He is an old friend of Varric’s. From his Kirkwall days. The champion was unable to join Fenris to Skyhold. He briefly mentioned a… heated disagreement.”

“A heated disagreement?” Sounded to Krem like trouble in paradise.

“He provided no explanation and I saw it unwise to pry into his personal affairs with the Champion.”

It was a good enough explanation for Krem as any.

They reached Josephine’s office and she held the door open for Krem. “After you.”

When Krem entered he noticed the stranger’s stark white hair before anything else. Then the strange markings running down the length of his arms. And then finally pointed ears as he turned to greet them. The elf had been reading a sheet of paper which he hastily returned to Josephine’s desk.

“You are Cremisius, I assume,” Fenris stated. Very formal. His articulation suggested extraordinary intelligence.

“You assume correctly,” Krem said and traversed the room, holding out his hand professionally. "Just Krem is fine if you'd prefer."

The man took the hand and shook it once. The fervor behind the gesture wracked the butchered nerves in Krem’s back but he did his best not to show it.

“My pleasure at finally meeting you is immeasurable, and trying to adequately express it seems futile,” Fenris said, all in one breath.

“I… don’t understand,” Krem said, holding his hands behind his back. He rolled his aching shoulder as casually as he could as he went to parade rest. “You know of me?”

Fenris gave a thin smile. “More than you know of yourself, perhaps,” he answered. “But that will be remedied soon. Over a vintage bottle of wine in someplace more private.”

His gaze shifted to Josephine, and Krem’s eyes slowly followed it. Josephine raised her chin.

“Serah’s wishes are duly noted,” she remarked. “And respected. The war room is just down that hallway. I can arrange for some privacy and a couple of chairs.”

“That would be appreciated, Ambassador,” Fenris said.


	6. Of Keeping Your Enemies Close

“Agreggio Pavali?” Krem asked, reading the label on one of the bottles that Fenris had brought with him. Two other bottles rested in wait on the war table off to the side.

Fenris laughed under his breath as he poured out the wine into two goblets. “Yes,” he said. “I happened upon a great amount of it years ago and over time the taste grew on me.”

Krem looked sullenly into his drink. The harsh smell of fermented fruit hit him and made his nose turn. “I’m not really one for wine,” he admitted. “The taste doesn’t—“

“The taste isn’t the reason that I suggested it,” Fenris admitted. The man took his seat on the other end of the war table and drank heartily from his cup. “It gets you drunk faster than mead and goes down easier than whiskey.”

Krem was quickly growing tired of this stranger acting like he was holding all the cards. He wanted to go on a romantic walk with Josephine or go train with the Chief. In all honesty, he would even prefer sharing a pipe of Elfroot with Varric to this clandestine meeting.

“Why did you come all this way?” Krem asked, ignoring his drink.

Fenris raised an eyebrow at him. “How about I answer one question of yours each time that that you empty a goblet of wine into your stomach? And only yes-or-no questions for now.”

Krem’s jaw set out of frustration. “You’re getting me drunk.”

“You’ll thank me later.”

Krem gripped at the stem of his goblet, bringing the expensive swill to his mouth. He knocked back gulp after gulp and after a few moments he slammed the thing onto the war table. The spare bottles of wine trembled in place, but Fenris looked decidedly unimpressed.

“Question number one,” he said slowly. “Did Tethras set you up to this?”

Fenris gave him a salty look and filled Krem’s goblet again. “No.”

Krem scoffed. “Well, your wine still tastes like wyvern balls.”

Fenris turned his attention to the half-empty bottle. “You see? It didn’t take long at all for the wine to loosen that stick in your ass,” he muttered and smirked at Krem.

Krem smirked back at the elf despite himself. “I guess you don’t want to make this a little more interesting by stripping off a piece of clothing every time you answer one of my questions.”

Fenris set down the bottle and paced himself on his first goblet. “That is strong talk coming from someone who spilled a fair amount of wine on their tunic.”

Krem shrugged. “I really just wanted to see if those weird tattoos went down your little elf cock.”

Fenris casually sipped at his goblet. “That sounds like a yes-or-no-question to me.”

Krem narrowed his eyes and raised the goblet to his mouth again, emptying it all in one swig. He slammed it back down on the war table and shook his head to clear the haze that was beginning to form in his mind.

Fenris titled his head to one side, sizing up the Tevinter man sitting across from him. “I’ll save you the trouble of talking me out of my clothes by confessing that yes, they do.”

Krem hardly heard what he had said because the war table suddenly began rocking like a boat on choppy waves. He had to steady himself on it. “After… just two cups…” he slurred. Krem was no lightweight. Something here was terribly amiss.

“You— You jjrugged—“

Krem’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed in a heap. His chin hit the table and then his body crumpled to the ground. Fenris slowly made his way around the war table and stood over him as Krem lost consciousness.

As his thoughts were dripping like hot wax from his mind, Krem realized that this was the second lethal mistake that he had made in two days. The Chief would have his hide for this.


	7. Of a Blessing in Disguise

_“I don’t think they’re following us anymore.”_

_“That is what they want us to think.”_

_“Maybe we should have just—“_

_“This is the only way, Garrett. And I will have it done.”_

Every word pounded in Krem’s head. He tried to hold his aching cranium, but his arms were bound behind his back. The ground was moving under him. No, not the ground. He was riding in an open-air carriage. It was extremely difficult to discover all of this new information as quickly as he would like. His eyes slowly opened and went into focus. The harsh brightness of the high-noon sun nearly blinded him. Then two pairs of apprehensive eyes stared back at him. One such pair belonged to the man at the front of the carriage who had apparently drugged and kidnapped him. In that moment, Krem wanted nothing more than to wring his scrawny, tattooed neck. He fought at his ropes to no avail.

“Blighted bastard…!” he swore helplessly.

“She’s awake,” said the stranger named Garrett. “What do we do?”

 _She._ Krem hadn’t been misgendered in many, many years. That old, deep pain cut through him like a heated knife.

“Don’t call me that,” Krem snarled. “My name is Cremisius Aclassi; son of Olivier Aclassi.”

Fenris was at the reins of the horses that drove the carriage. “You can drop the façade. We are not here to apprehend you.”

“It’s not a façade,” Krem said, breathless with anger. “Untie me _now_!”

“Not until you calm down and we get you up to speed,” said Garrett. “And then you can fill in some of the gaps that we have obviously overlooked.”

Krem huffed like a winded beast, twisting against his restraints. “Stop speaking in riddles! Why did you kidnap me? I’ll--!”

Garrett had knelt in front of him and held out an envelope. It was inscribed with the name ‘ _Olivia_ ’ in what Krem knew to be his father’s handwriting. His breath caught in his throat.

“Where… did you get that?” Krem said, choking on the words.

“It’ll be easier if you just read it,” said Garrett. “We’re trying to help you, Cremisius. We want to reunite you with your father.”

Krem could feel himself shaking. None of this made sense. He hadn’t spoken to his father since he was a child. His father had given himself up to a life of slavery in order to save Krem and his mother from poverty. Krem had given up hope thinking that he would ever hear from him again. Krem felt the ropes around his arms go slack as Garrett cut them with a dagger. Krem didn’t move to attack them. The drugs still had him sluggish, and he was determined to find out what was in that letter.

“Here,” Garrett said in a soft voice, holding out the signed envelope. “I’m glad that we could deliver this to you. I just wish that it had been under better circumstances.”

Krem took the envelope with trembling hands and pushed apart the pristine wax seal of the Aclassi crest with his thumb. He removed the letter and read it through eyes fogged by tears.

_My dearest Olivia,_

_If you are reading this letter know that I am alive and doing my best to keep hope alive with me. Hope-- this fickle, elusive thing-- has been my only true companion as a slave, but as I write this to you, I feel it growing stronger._

Then the writing became less composed—more like chicken scratch.

_I haven’t much time. I will see you again very soon. I love you._

_-O.A._

“Dad…!” Krem couldn't hold back that sweet word as the tears came unchecked. He held the letter against his chest and sobbed for what he had lost and finally found so many years later.

After the shock had passed, Krem tucked the letter away in his clothes and looked up at Hawke with red, puffy eyes. “Where… Where is he?” he asked with a distinct edge of anger to his voice.

Hawke knew that look. He had seen it in Fenris burning just as strong before he had killed his master. “Kirkwall,” he answered.

Krem took a final, sharp breath through his nose and let it out in a huff. His jaw was set, and all of his sadness and relief suddenly hardened into steel.

“Take me to him,” he said.

It was Fenris who answered him with a smirk. “That is the plan.”


	8. Of Cutting Corners

“This is remarkable!” Josephine gasped. “Five jars of Orlesian honey! Did you have anything to do with this, Varric?”

Varric chuckled. “I may have put in a good word for you, Ruffles.”

He shifted through the cart full of goodies and picked up a jar of his own. It was filled with a dark, viscous liquid.

“Wood polish from Orzammar! I just knew that Fenris would pull through for me and Bianca.”

Varric and Josephine had gathered in the courtyard to see what goodies had been brought for them. A sheepish, dark-haired elf appeared from behind the cart.

“Fenris also bought a quiver of bolts for her,” said Merrill. “Erm… I mean, for you, Varric.”

Merrill had been the one that had driven the cart of gifts into Skyhold. She had been glad to carry out the job if it meant seeing Varric again. They had expressed their great joy at seeing each other after such a long time and wasted no time in breaking into the donations.

“I just can’t believe that you made it all the way from Val Royeaux to Skyhold without incident, Daisy.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” Merrill said. “The ride was largely uneventful. I did help a nug across the road. Her leg was hurt and she was limping. But other than that nothing exciting happened along the way.”

“I’m a little surprised that you didn’t bring the nug back with you,” Varric admitted.

“I healed her leg so she should be fine," Merrill said. "Not with blood magic,” she added hastily. “Just… regular magic.”

“And I’m sure that that the nug appreciated it,” he said goodheartedly. “Did Fenris buy anything for you, Daisy? Some nice jewelry, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes!” Merrill said excitedly. “He let me keep the horses. And the cart.”

“Oh,” said Varric, keeping the sense of anti-climactic disappointment himself. “Good on him, then.”

Merrill just smiled. “It was very kind of him to do all of this. I can understand why he didn’t want to travel with me. He never was very fond of me, I don’t think. But his instructions were very specific. I hope that I got everything right. I just wish that he could be here to see you, Varric.”

Josephine was taken aback at that. “But Merrill, Fenris _is_ here,” she said matter-of-factly. “He’s speaking with Krem in the war room right now.”

Merrill looked genuinely surprised. “But he said that he had other business with Hawke,” she exclaimed. “He said that he would be at Skyhold later on, but certainly not today.”

Josephine considered that for a moment. “That is… very odd,” she said. “In any case, I met with him myself just a little while ago. Why don't you go say 'hello' to him, Varric?”

“I think I will,” he said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think—“

Varric was cut off by a large crash on the other side of Skyhold. It sounded like a magical explosion. A big, fiery boom and then a crackling after-burst.

“What was that?” Varric muttered and watched dark smoke rise into the sky. The work horses attached to the cart whinnied anxiously and reared onto their back legs. Merrill stumbled back from the kicking hooves, but rushed in to calm the startled mares just as quickly.

“Oh my...!” Josephine exclaimed, watching the plume of smoke rise into the clear, blue sky. “Varric, should we…?”

“You two stay here,” Varric told Josephine and Merrill resolutely. “It was probably just one of the conscripted mages getting carried away, but I’ll go check it out.”

As Varric hurried across the courtyard, he couldn’t help but feel like Fenris’ dishonesty to Merrill and Josephine was a sign of something much more serious than the two of them realized. And knowing Fenris, he knew that he had to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible.


	9. Of Broken Defenses

The situation at Skyhold’s front gate was that of a tense standoff between a dozen of the Inquisition’s mage forces-- with staffs charged and ready to fire at a moment’s notice-- and a dozen heavily-fortified enemy mercenaries on the bridge.

The explosion had forcibly lowered the drawbridge from the inside, destroying its inner workings and causing the chains to go slack. Their stronghold was compromised and wide open to attack. The Inquisitor herself was at the front of the formation, her bow drawn and at the ready. Fifty more of the Inquisition’s troops flanked the Inquisitor should their assistance be needed.

“Stand down!” The Inquisitor’s commanding voice boomed throughout the courtyard. Her bow was trained on the helmeted forehead of the opposing group’s largest warrior. “This castle belongs to the Inquisition,” she continued. “Surrender your weapons and call a retreat.”

The warrior at the business end of the Inquisitor’s bow stepped confidently forward. An impressive greatsword was strapped diagonally onto his back. He seemed to be human, but it was impossible to tell under the huge plates of metal that made up his full-body armor. “We have no business with the Inquisitor or her Inquisition—only with a murderer that she is known to be harboring.”

The Inquisitor tautly drew back her bow, her turquoise eyes bright with anger. “The Inquisition works within the regulations of both Ferelden and Orlais. Who are you to dare come here and accuse me of--”

“Inquisitor. Somehow I knew I’d find you here.” The harsh twang of Varric’s crossbow readying a steel bolt could be heard over the commotion. He fell in line next to the Inquisitor, sizing up the enemy ranks. “Think you can you explain what I’ve missed in four words or less?”

“Things went to shit,” said the Inquisitor without breaking her concentration on the warrior commander.

Varric sneered and aimed Bianca at what could only be the enemy warrior’s staff-wielding second-in-command. “Why am I not surprised. So what’s the plan?”

“Talk them down,” said the Inquisitor. “Don’t attack unless they attack first.”

“Right,” Varric sighed. If the Inquisition attacked the unwelcome group first, without any provocation, four different treaties with surrounding nations would be compromised. In order to continue their work, the Inquisitor couldn’t afford any legal missteps just to dispose of such a small group of malcontents.

“The criminal that we’ve been hired to apprehend entered your stronghold earlier this morning,” said the warrior leader. “We have a third party that can corroborate our claims. We are well within our rights to order an assault on your castle in order to find him… if you do not comply.”

“You cannot expect to overtake this hold with just a dozen soldiers,” said the Inquisitor, boldly.

“Inquisitor!” It was Cullen, who, sword in hand, rushed to meet them at the gate. “The hold is surrounded,” he announced, breathless. “A hundred fighters armed to the teeth.”

The Inquisitor fought back an angry sound at the back of her throat. “You didn’t think to inform me of this before they knocked on the front door, Commander?”

“They were cloaked with magic, Inquisitor,” Cullen explained. “There was no warning.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Varric swore, hardly believing that an army of well-armed mercenaries had managed to covertly approach and surround Skyhold. “Well, now what?”

“We buy time,” the Inquisitor said. “I don’t know what could have possibly motivated a hundred magically-camouflaged mercenaries to trudge out into the middle of the mountains and challenge the Inquisition, but we can’t risk losing Skyhold.”

But before any other negotiations could be made, an arrow whizzed past the Inquisitor’s pointy ears and struck an Inquisition rogue straight through the heart with a dull, sickening thud. The solider crumpled lifelessly to the ground and sheer panic ensued.

“ _Attack_!” It was the word of their commander, and the whole of Skyhold’s might rushed to meet the order. The Inquisitor let loose her arrow and it ricocheted off of the enemy warrior’s helmet. It knocked him to the ground and he didn’t get back up. When she lowered her arm, her hand was snatched from the air and she was forcibly pulled away from the fray.

“You’re too important to fall here, Inquisitor,” Varric growled and led her through the bustling crowd-- towards Skyhold’s inner fortress. The Inquisitor glanced back over her shoulder and saw that Cullen was surging forward with his blade held high to meet the opposition—along with over fifty of her men-- advancing to defend the Inquisition’s stronghold. It was the attack at Haven all over again… but on a monumentally larger scale.

Her worst fears had been made real. And this time there was nothing she could do to stop it.


	10. Of An Impossible Crossroads

Krem pensively sat at the back of the open-air carriage, deep in thought as he stared at the letter that had been given to him by Fenris and Garrett. He ran his calloused fingers over the rough parchment, silently regarding what kind of circumstances his father must be in at that very moment. The situation was grim for Olivier Aclassi. That much was certain. Krem knew from the many tales that Tethras had shared with him over the years that life in Kirkwall was trying enough without being an indentured, Tevinter slave.

It was only when the carriage rocked under Garrett’s sudden movement that Krem was startled from his reverie.

“What in Andraste’s blessed name is that?”

Krem followed The Champion’s awe-stricken gaze back to Skyhold.

They had crested a tall hill and the vantage point gave them a clear view of the chaos unfolding back at the Inquisition stronghold. Billows of dark smoke crackling with magical energy rose into the clear afternoon sky. Massive fires had cropped up on the ramparts, visible even from a distance.

Skyhold was under siege.

“ _No_ …” Krem breathed, rising ever so slightly from his seat. For the first time since he received his father’s letter, Krem’s resolve to travel overseas in search of his father was cracked. The Inquisitor needed him. The Chargers needed him.

_And The Chief…_

“We have to go back,” Krem blurted out. Fenris and Garrett just stared back at him in affronted disbelief.

“Go back?” Garrett retorted, visibly offended at the thought. “We can’t go back! Do you have any idea what it took to get you out of—“

“We are not going back.” Fenris’ eyes were bright with fierce emotion. “We're continuing to Kirkwall even if we have to apprehend you again and drag you kicking and screaming across The Waking Sea.” His eyebrows unfurrowed just a bit. “We need you to come with us, Cremisius. It’s not just your father who needs rescuing. He is just one of a hundred slaves in the group that we are liberating in Kirkwall. Do you think we would risk so much just to save one man? There’s too much at stake to go back now.”

“There will be _a thousand_ people killed back at Skyhold if we don’t go back!” Krem countered.

“And what difference will three fighters make if we turned back right this second?” Garrett asked, resigned to his better judgement. But his dark eyes were soft with sympathy to The Inquisition’s plight. “I’m sorry, Krem. But it’s not the right choice.”

Krem gripped at the letter in his hand out of anger. He knew that they were right, but his father wasn’t the only person who counted on him. He’d already disappointed so many people at Skyhold these past few days. And now he was headed in the opposite direction while The Inquisition-- Bull's Chargers and all-- fought for their lives without him.

_But his father…_

Before Krem could say another word, there was an explosive crash at the front of the carriage. Krem was thrown from his seat with a surprised yell, and toppled into the grass several yards away in a heap. He groaned in horrible agony. The wounds in his injured shoulder re-opened as he collided with the hard ground. An explosion of pain blinded Krem for several seconds as he lay crumpled in the dirt. Gasping for the air that had been punched from his lungs, Krem shook the stars from his vision and struggled to gather his senses. When the dust cleared, he saw a massive, familiar figure in the distance next to the ruined carriage.

It was a furious Iron Bull with a gleaming greataxe in one hand, and Fenris’ narrow neck in the other.


	11. Of An Unexpected Ally

Dorian fought valiantly against the invading mercenaries for as long as he could. Half a dozen mercs chased him—screaming demented war cries all the while-- into the inner courtyard of Skyhold. Unable to run any farther, Dorian ducked into an alcove as he turned a sharp corner. He held his labored breath until he was certain that he had eluded his attackers. Then he slid his back down the stone wall, unable to stand upright any longer. He suddenly hissed through gritted teeth as he noticed a smart pain in his right side. He touched the fabric of his coat and his hand came away warm and red.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” he swore as loudly as he dared. A rouge merc must have sliced him while he was looking for a place to hide. The wound wasn’t especially deep, but it was enough to incapacitate him.

The front lines of the Inquisition forces must have been cut down by now. How else could so many enemies have penetrated the walls of Skyhold in a matter of minutes? The opposing numbers were hopelessly immense and growing with each passing minute. There seemed to be no sense in fighting back on his own. The Inquisition had been caught by surprise—plain and simple.

Dorian heard the sound of dirt crunching underfoot and swung his staff in the direction of the disturbance, his eyes wild with fearful savagery.

“Whoa! Don’t attack! I’m here to help!”

An unfamiliar man with yellow hair and a mage’s staff stood over him, his free hand raised to show that he meant no harm. “My name is Anders,” he said, kneeling down beside Dorian. “I’m a healer. And a friend of a friend. Are you hurt?”

Dorian huffed and dropped his staff. “Yes, I think so,” he said tersely. This week had been full of unwanted surprises, but this one may have just saved his life. “A knife wound, I think.”

Anders put down his staff and raised his hands over the bloody injury. Dorian flinched at first, unsure of this stranger’s true allegiance or his intentions. But the pain slowly melted away as Anders’ hands glowed with a soft-green, magical light.

“It’s not a perfect fix, but you should be able to walk now,” Anders said, and Dorian knew it to be true. There was still a dull ache, but the bleeding had completely stopped. Dorian surveyed the worried face of the man who had healed him and knew for a fact that he had never seen this person before now.

“You said you were a friend of a friend,” Dorian said, questionably.

“Of Varric’s,” Anders elaborated, hesitantly. “Although,” he continued, averting his eyes, “he would probably use a much different term than ‘friend’.”

“Another term?” Dorian said, shocked. “As in _lovers_ , or…?”

“ _Lovers_?!” Anders exclaimed. “Maker, no! What I meant was—“

There was a magical explosion and a crackling after-burst just a yard away from their hiding spot. The two of them wouldn’t be able to stay hidden here for much longer.

“We have to go onto the ramparts," Anders said, breathless. "There’s no time to explain now.”

“The _ramparts_?!” Dorian spat. “We might as well stroll out into the courtyard and wait around to be killed! There’s far too many of them. We have to make a retreat or—“

“No! The rest of the mages are waiting for us!” Anders explained, realizing that he had no choice but to lay out the plan for Dorian as simply and quickly as possible. “The rest of the Inquisition is taking cover inside the great hall, but the mages are preparing a counter-attack that will take out the entire mercenary force, all at once. But they need us to contribute what magic we have left in us to make it work.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed in mild distrust. “How do I know I can trust you?” he asked. 

Anders took a deep, calming breath. “I suppose you don’t,” he admitted. “Now, come on. The mages can’t afford to wait on us much longer.”

Anders helped Dorian to his feet and they exited the alcove at a sprint. Dorian catapulted fireballs from his staff at a crowd of enemy fighters laden in red-and-black armor as they made a mad, desperate dash to the ramparts.


	12. Of One Last Ditch Effort

As Anders and Dorian were scaling the steps of the ramparts, Dorian wondered if he would have any magic left to contribute to this big masterplan once they rejoined with the other mages. He felt fatigued—drained of all magical energy-- his legs threatening to buckle under him as he pushed himself ever forward. Out of nowhere, an enemy warrior suddenly lunged toward him with his sword drawn. Dorian gave a startled, furious yell and fell into a backswing with his staff. He whacked the combatant on the side of his skull with all the strength that he could muster, and the merc toppled over the wall of the rampart, falling to the grassy dirt below in a silent, motionless heap.

Dorian fell to one knee with a weary grunt, struggling to catch his breath. This fight was testing the limits of his physical and magical stamina. When he noticed that Dorian had fallen behind, Anders turned about-face and knelt next to Dorian, putting one supportive hand on his shoulder.

“Can you make it?” he asked, genuinely worried about the mage’s wellbeing.

Dorian shook his head to rid the fog of exhaustion that was clouding his mind. “I’ll be fine,” he groaned, and used his staff to help himself to his feet. “I just hope that I’ll have enough magic at my disposal to be of some use once we find the Inquisition mages.” _And that this mysterious plan will actually work._

The two men worked together to rid their path of mercenaries as they stormed the ramparts. And soon enough, Dorian could see some familiar faces up ahead. Solas, Vivienne, and a young elven woman with dark hair and Dalish markings on her face who he didn’t recognize, had congregated on the north-facing wall of Skyhold along with two dozen more of the remaining mages under the Inquisition’s banner.

“Ah, here you are,” Dorian said, trying not to seem as worn down as he felt.

“There is no time for pleasantries,” Solas said, urgently. “Is everyone else inside the great hall?”

“Yes,” Anders said. “Everything is ready.”

“Then let’s start summoning the barrier,” Solas directed. He climbed a few steps on the rampart wall so that he was standing above the rest of the mages. “We are going to work together to form a barrier around Skyhold!” he announced. “The barrier will expand outward from our position and collide with any person outside of the castle’s inner fortress with enough force to neutralize them.”

Dorian couldn’t hold back a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s your big plan?” he scoffed. “Balloon them against the walls?” He couldn’t believe that he had risked his life for this ridiculous tactic.

Solas turned his fierce gaze towards Dorian. “Do you have a better alternative?” he asked, coldly.

Dorian sighed, a horrible sense of unease washing over him. If anyone was injured and couldn't make it to the great hall, they would likely be killed by this desperate proposal. But it was not like they could burn Skyhold to the ground or freeze it solid. He couldn’t deny that spirit energy would be the most appropriate magic to quickly-- and hopefully effectively-- rid them of the opposing mercenary militia.

“No,” Dorian answered. “I suppose not.”

“Then let’s begin,” Solas said, conclusively, and raised his staff.

The other mages wordlessly followed suit-- along with Anders and Dorian—all pointing their staffs in a circular formation. The tips of each staff glowed with green spirit energy, and a magical barrier ballooned outward from their position like an arrow fired from a bow. Terrified screams of the mercs could soon be heard across Skyhold’s courtyards, and then the deafening sound of metal colliding against stone and wood. Several mercs were thrown into the stables and the whole infrastructure came crashing down on them in a cloud of dust. A large group that was trying to infiltrate the entrance of the great hall were smashed against the heavy wooden door with the force of fifty stampeding desert gurns. Then they all collapsed to the ground in a still pile of broken limbs and steel.

An eerie silence fell upon the grounds. All of the chaotic sounds of battle had tapered into nothingness, and the mages gave a collective sound of relief and enervation.

Unable to continue, Dorian’s legs gave out from under him and he collapsed with his back against the rampart wall, gasping for breath. Anders gave an exhausted but relieved laugh and patted him hard on the shoulder.

“We did it,” Anders said joyfully as the giant, green barrier over their heads gradually flickered into nothingness. “Your Inquisition has won to fight another day.”


	13. Of Misconduct and a Betrayal of Trust

“ **Krem**!” A flock of birds fled from the surrounding trees with frightened squawks as Bull called for his fallen companion. “Get off your blighted Tevinter ass and _fight_!”

Fenris was completely incapacitated—dangling helplessly two feet off the ground. Bull’s fist was clamped tightly around his neck and the lower part of his face. The captured elf’s legs kicked franticly at the air in front of him without finding any purchase. Fenris couldn’t even take a breath with Bull’s spade-like hand obstructing his mouth and nose.

Krem couldn’t believe just how badly things had spiraled into catastrophe.

_Of course Bull had abandoned the fight at Skyhold to track him down._

_Of course Bull had camped out patiently at the treeline—hidden from view, waiting for a chance to ambush his captors._

_Of course Bull had taken advantage of the fiery sight of Skyhold to distract Fenris and Garrett long enough to strike._

The Chief’s shrewd, gravelly voice resonated in Krem’s mind: ‘ _Ben-Hassrath training, remember?_ ’

“Dammit,” Krem swore under his breath and tried his best to work past the debilitating agony of his mangled right shoulder. The nerves in his arm had been totally wrecked. He couldn’t even move it as he staggered unsteadily to his feet.

Krem heard a furious war cry in the distance and the sound of magic hitting hard, Qunari skin. Bull stumbled forward one step, but his grip didn’t loosen on Fenris. Garrett stood several yards away, staff raised and expression darkened in furious anger.

“Unhand him, monster!” Garrett screamed, his staff charging for another barrage of arcane magic.

Bull gave a hateful, guttural growl from the back of his throat and leaned into a back pitch. He surged forward in a single, powerful movement and threw Fenris’ bony body at Garrett.

Krem saw the sheer panic that flashed across Garrett’s features for just a split second, even from yards away.

“Oh shi—“

Fenris crashed bodily into Garrett, and the unfortunate mage grunted as all the air was forced from his chest. The two men rolled in a calamity of limbs, groaning as they went, and came to an immobile rest at the base of a tree.

Bull put two fingers between his teeth and gave a loud whistle. One of the inquisition’s work horses came nickering through the underbrush, stomping anxiously at the dirt next to Iron Bull. When Bull turned to Krem, huffing with unbridled rage, the Tevinter man unknowingly took a step backwards.

“Ch- _Chief_ …” he said dumbly as Bull advanced on him. His own voice was at an atrociously high pitch in his ears. “I—“

“ _Get on the damn horse_ ,” Bull ordered, spraying spittle at Krem in his anger. “I don’t want to hear another fucking _word_ out of you until we get back to Skyhold.”

Before Krem had a chance to disobey his chief’s direct command, Bull grabbed Krem by the front of his tunic and dragged him forcefully towards the work horse. Krem gave a painful shout, his feet sliding forward on the loose dirt. The cotton sleeve of his tunic was digging sharply into the bloody mess that was injured shoulder.

“ _Wait! Chief_!” Krem moaned, his chest tight with equal parts humiliation and remorse. “Chief, I—“

Bull rounded on him in one horrible instant, his giant, Qunari hands bunching up the front of his tunic. It happened so fast that it was not until he felt Bull’s hot breath on his face that Krem heard Bull’s greataxe clang against the hard dirt at their feet.

“Not-- a fucking-- _word_!” Bull snarled, not even an inch from Krem’s nose.

Krem could see the tendons pulsing out from the Qunari’s forehead-- each bead of sweat that gleamed on the planes of his face. Krem could swear that he could feel Bull’s hands shaking ever so slightly. But there was nothing of worth that he could say even if he could find his voice. Bull had every right to be furious with him, and Krem knew it. Be it his humiliating abduction at Skyhold. Be it the collateral damage of Bull having to choose between defending the Inquisition against an insurmountable attack and rescuing him. Be it the fact that this was the second time in two days that Krem had let down his guard and almost gotten himself killed. Bull’s expert eyes ran up and down Krem’s body, surveying every telling detail.

“Your _hands_ ,” Bull said, an edge of something terrible breaking his voice.

Krem immediately noticed that his hands were unbound. He knew what this looked like to the Iron Bull—to a Ben-Hassrath spy. A solider like Krem should have been tied up if he had been kidnapped. Even with his injured arm, his captors would never have left Krem unbound in an open air carriage unless he was working with them.

It was a sense of betrayal that shook Bull to his very core.

“Chief…” Krem muttered, his warrior spirit withering within him. “It’s not what you—“

Bull dropped Krem to the ground with a disgusted grunt, taking several steps back. Krem coughed as a cloud of dirt filled his lungs. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at the Chief. Krem took a shaky breath, trying to scrape up some semblance of courage. 

“My father…” he said, voice cracking. “I did it for my father.”

Bull’s massive shadow loomed over him, completely blotting out the sun. Krem propped himself up on his good arm and finally looked up at his chief. The emotion behind the Qunari’s uncovered eye was inscrutable to Krem, but those giant hands were still clenched into boulder-like fists.

“If you’re not up on that horse by the time I tie up those sorry, thieving bastards,” Bull announced, his voice flat and thin with suppressed rage. “You can forget about coming back to Skyhold.”


	14. Of Licking Wounds

“I have the final figures regarding the injuries and fatalities from the siege on Skyhold,” Cullen announced to Josephine as they congregated alone in her office. He sullenly regarded a clipboard in his hand. “And… there’s really no way to deliver this news in a positive light.”

“There’s no need to spare my personal feelings, Cullen,” Josephine responded with a heavy heart. Thanks to the quick actions of the Inquisitor, the inner stronghold had gone completely undamaged. In an ironic turn of events, it had been an unassailable sanctuary for both non-combatants and non-mages in the final moments of the battle. The decorative wall pieces-- Andrastian idols of dull bronze that lined the ceiling of the great hall—had looked down on them and sheltered them from harm. Despite the considerable amount of bloodshed in the courtyards, the inner fortress had remained untouched by the army of mercenaries. Numerous lives had been saved because of it.

“Very well,” Cullen muttered as he read over his notes. “Fifty-eight of the Inquisition’s soldiers were killed in the onslaught. Forty-seven of the survivors that have been accounted for are in critical condition. Eighteen of those forty-seven are not likely to survive the night. One hundred and sixteen more have minor injuries.”

Josephine suddenly felt faint. She composed herself and did some hasty calculations in her head. “That leaves sixty-one members of the Inquisition who survived the attack completely unscathed.” Most of them had already been in the great hall when the attack first occurred. Many more were able to flee to shelter in the few precious moments before utter pandemonium ensued.

“Fifty-nine,” Cullen regretfully corrected her. “The Iron Bull and Cremisius Aclassi have not yet been located since the attack. Their status is listed as ‘unknown’ at this point in time.”

Josephine fought to keep her tumultuous emotions hidden. Krem had still been in physical therapy when the mercenaries fought their way into Skyhold. The last she saw of him had been with Fenris.

“What about our guests who are not on the Inquisition’s roster?” she asked. “Have they been taken into account?”

“Merrill has been reported as being safe and unhurt,” he said. “She’s with Varric helping the injured now.”

“And Fenris?”

Cullen placed his clipboard on Josephine’s desk for her to double-check. “Missing.”

Josephine buried her face in her hands. “Andraste preserve us,” she sighed. 

This orchestrated ambush by the mercenaries was just another reminder that none of them were truly safe any more. Wasn't it enough that they had to defend themselves against demons? And in the end it had been politics that cost them so dearly. Josephine knew in this moment-- now more than ever-- that she would never be able to run far enough away to be safe from The Game. After all, the Inquisition had retreated into the snowy wilderness of the Orlesian mountainside, and look at all the good it had done them. For Josephine this horrific turn of events was irrefutable proof that The Game would always be a constant threat to her and the people around her. She could feel a hard lump forming in her throat as she dared wonder who among the dozens of fallen soldiers-- many of which she knew personally and loved dearly-- would have to be burned or buried in the coming days.

“Andraste _has_ preserved us,” Cullen reassured her. “Leliana is safe and accounted for as well.”

Josephine gave a small gasp. Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle it just a moment too late. Her deep brown eyes welled up and tears fell down her soft cheeks unabated.

“ _Oh...! Thank the Maker_ …!” she proclaimed, her voice wracked with sobs.

Cullen rushed forward without hesitation. Josephine leapt from her seat and into his warm embrace. Not since the attack on Haven had the Inquisition suffered such a heartrending blow. Those old wounds still hadn’t completely healed. And now they had even more friends to mourn. More lives hanging the in balance. More peace to reclaim and restore.

“ _I’m so glad that you’re okay_ …!” Josephine exclaimed, her teary face hidden against Cullen’s chest. “You…! Leliana…! The Inquisitor…!” But she was still worried about Krem. Had he somehow been an overlooked casualty in the courtyard? She couldn't stand the thought of it. “Cullen... I just—”

A loud crash abruptly rang out as Bull kicked open the door of Josephine’s office. The door slammed against the stone wall, nearly breaking away from its hinges.

Without any preamble, Bull flung Garrett and Fenris unceremoniously to the marble floor. They had been skillfully, licentiously hogtied since they arrived back at Skyhold. Both were still out cold.

“I found Krem,” Bull grimly announced as Cullen and Josephine looked on, dumbfounded. “And tell the Inquisitor that I’ve brought her the scum that’s responsible for all this.”


	15. Of Insult to Injury

“It’s not that bad,” Krem muttered as he twiddled his thumbs in the makeshift infirmary that had been set up in the tavern. He was perched on a wooden stool with Anders tending to his mangled shoulder, using the powerful brand of healing magic that he was famous for back in Kirkwall. “There are people here who need your expertise a lot more than I do right now.”

The bar was filled with the agonized moans of the wounded and the cries of people who cared about them. The Inquisition was already severely understaffed in tackling the overwhelming task of healing the injured. They were stretched thin to just thirty-four mages tending to an astounding 163 patients—almost fifty of which were in need of immediate, live-saving attention. Many non-mages had volunteered as amateur doctors, but their stores of health supplies were quickly dwindling. And there just wasn’t enough able-bodied help to go around.

“In my experience,” Anders said, pinpointing his magical energy at the damaged tendons and muscles in Krem’s back. “When a Qunari tells you to do something, it is unwise to question them.”

Bull had approached Anders with Krem in tow and brutishly assigned him with the task of keeping an eye on the Tevinter runaway… as if he were nothing but an unruly child. Krem doubted that Anders was any older than himself, and the degradation of it gnawed at him.

“The Chief wouldn’t do anything to you,” Krem insisted, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate the help as the days-old pain slowly melted away from him. He was already feeling better after just fifteen minutes in Anders’ specialized care.

“I’m almost done,” Anders said to appease Krem’s guilty conscience. “Then I’ll go up to the main infirmary and—“

Anders’ voice abruptly cut off, and Krem glanced over his shoulder to see what the problem was. Anders had gone white as a sheet and was staring fixedly out the door. Krem followed his line of sight and saw Varric washing off his bloody hands with a cloth as he spoke with Cassandra.

“Excuse me,” Anders said, his voice flat and devoid of any discernible emotion. The mage stood from his seat and took his leave with no other explanation.

‘ _What the hell was that about_?’ Krem wondered as he readjusted his tunic, and made a snap decision to follow him.

Once Anders was within arm’s length of Varric, the dwarf yelled, “You nug-humping son of a bitch!” and proceeded to kick the hapless mage hard between the legs. Anders groaned and crumpled to the ground, tenderly cupping his defenseless crotch as he went.

Krem quickened his pace to try and break up whatever had started between the two of them, but Anders wasn’t even fighting back. Varric had viciously grabbed a fist full of his blond hair and was yelling vitriolic abuse at him. “ _How dare you_ show your blighted face here after what you’ve done?!” Varric screamed into the mage’s face. “You think I won't kill you right here, you fucking _shameless_ \--!”

Cassandra pried Varric’s hands from Anders and pushed him back. “Varric, control yourself!” she shouted. “This isn’t the time for it!”

“ _Isn’t the time_?!” Varric snarled, his face contorted with frenzied ire. “I’ve been waiting to dole out an ass-kicking to this Chantry-bombing nug-fucker for the past four years! Don’t think I won’t go right through you to--!”

“ _Varric_!” Cassandra sputtered as she struggled to restrain him. “I can’t stand by while you kill one of the last medic mages in our ranks when there’s a hundred people here who need his help!”

Anders moved slowly as to not cause more damage to his testicles than had already been done as he repositioned himself into an upright sitting position on the ground. His blonde hair had been forced out of its ponytail and fell haphazardly into his face.

Varric stopped his squirming and aggressively shrugged Cassandra off of him. “ _Fine_ ,” he spat. “But we’re gonna have more than words later, Anders. I promise you that.” Then Varric turned on his heel and trudged into the tavern.

Anders. Not Blondie. That intentional disregard for the nickname that Varric had given him all those years ago almost hurt more than the ruthless blow to his manhood. _Almost_.

Cassandra scoffed and knelt beside Anders. “Are you alright?” she asked in a compassionate voice. “We can find you some ice—“

“No, I’ll manage without it,” Anders said and stiffly pulled himself to his feet. Before Cassandra could protest, Anders retreated in the other direction and out of sight.

“I’ve never seen Varric that pissed off at someone,” Krem admitted out loud.

Cassandra gave a humorless laugh at that. “I wish I could say the same,” she said, thinking back to all the times Varric had lost his temper at her since they first met.

Krem was unsure of what to do now. He was a soldier, not a medic. ‘ _I’ll just be in the way if I stay here_ ,’ he thought, despondently. Maybe he should have stayed behind like Bull had said and gone to rescue his father on his own after all.

“Have you seen Dorian?” he asked Cassandra.

“He’s at the stables,” she answered. “Apparently there was a mercenary who survived that last attack with the barrier.” Her expression darkened with disapproval. “Dorian is interrogating him.”

Krem thanked her for the information and took off at a sprint towards the stables without a second thought.

‘ _Finally_ ,’ he thought, a small, hopeful fire starting within him. ‘ _Something I’m actually good at._ ’


	16. Of Adding Fuel to the Fire

Krem had to step over several mangled bodies of the dead as he approached what used to be the Inquisition stables. The ground under him was so saturated with blood that his boots squelched with each repulsive step.

“I told you! I’m just a foot soldier! I don’t ask questions about jobs! I just go where I’m told!”

Dorian landed a hard, backhanded slap, and his prisoner sputtered in pain.

“Lie to me again and I’ll loosen that tongue of yours with a sharpened dagger,” Dorian sneered. “And by that, I mean I’ll have it out of your head and in the palm of my hand.”

Krem saw that the captured merc was tied up against a post… like a plague victim ready for the pyre. It was a grim sight, even for Krem, who had seen some truly horrible things on the road with Bull. The Tevinter mage’s usually-perfectly-coifed hair was now in shambles, and the messy, disheveled sight of him reminded Krem of nothing about the Dorian that he knew.

Dorian turned sharply to meet Krem as he approached the scene of the interrogation.

“Krem?” Dorian exclaimed, his confusion at the Charger’s disappearance before the attack and his reemergence now plain by the sharp arch of his eyebrow. Krem ignored it, his hands furling into fists at his sides.

“Dorian,” he responded flatly.

“Oh, thank the Maker!” the hostage breathlessly proclaimed. He was already thoroughly bruised and bloodied.

“Quiet, you!” Dorian snarled, rounding back on the merc again. “He isn’t here for your best interests, I assure you.”

“That’s right,” Krem attested, cracking his neck and his knuckles as he advanced. “I’m really more of a punch-away-my-problems kind of guy. And there’s a big one tied up right in front of me.”

The mercenary spat at Krem, and a glob of saliva and blood landed right on his cheek.

With a frustrated growl, Krem roughly grabbed at the front of the merc’s leather coat and shook him. Any patience that he had was at its limit.

“I’ve had… a _really_ shitty day,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“Oh yeah?” said the mercenary, his tone heavily mired in sarcasm. “Well, that makes two of us.”

Without need of any more provocation, Krem pulled back and landed a closed-fisted right hook squarely on the mercenary’s mandible. A gob of bloody spittle ran from the corner his mouth-- down his broken jaw-- and trailed to the ground. He was out cold.

Dorian gave a spirited whistle.

“A one-hit knock out,” he said, vaguely impressed. “I’m guessing you’ve had practice with that one.”

Krem shook his aching right hand. Bull had taught him a lot over the years. One of his first fighting tips had been how to punch a guy’s lights out without breaking any fingers. The first time Krem had tried it, he had broken his thumb by having it in his fist.

‘ _Put your thumb around your second and third knuckles when you punch_ ,’ Bull had said.

It had been a painful lesson, but Krem had learned from it quick.

“He’ll feel like talking once he comes to,” Krem said, turning on his heel to leave before Dorian could take the opportunity to question him next.

It had felt good taking out his frustration on the captive rouge. Maybe a little too good.

But before he could take his leave, Krem felt Dorian’s hand firmly on his shoulder.

“Wait,” Dorian said, choosing his words carefully. “Are you… Are you alright?”

Krem wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It certainly wasn’t the question that he was expecting.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” he asked in a testy, tired drawl.

“No,” Dorian admitted. “But I-- I’m just worried about you, Krem.”

Krem picked up on something sickly-sweet in Dorian’s voice—something flirtatious and suggestive that dripped like honey from his words. A pang of panic shot through him and he defiantly shrugged off Dorian’s far-too-intimate touch.

“Don’t be,” Krem said, an edge of anger hardening his voice.

And as Krem marched away towards the great hall, Dorian’s thoughts were preoccupied with how the musculature of Krem’s shoulder had felt under his hand.


	17. Of Drunken Confessions

Dorian rubbed his aching neck as he walked back up the stone steps to Iron Bull’s chambers. Dorian had spent all day helping out the medic mages and the exhaustion that he felt had buried itself deep in his bones. Fantasies of Bull massaging the soreness out of his muscles with fine oils made him lose his focus for a moment. It _was_ his name-day tomorrow, after all.

After he had scaled the steps and reached the ramparts, Dorian looked out onto the courtyard. Soldiers were still hauling off bodies of the dead and throwing buckets of water onto the blood-stained walls. A grim line of a scowl formed over his chin at the sight of it. Of course working towards recovery from the attack took precedence over his silly name-day. It’s not like he had ever gotten a chance to properly celebrate it before now, anyway.

Dorian knocked on the door to Bull’s chambers, but there was no answer. “Bull? I’m coming in,” he called hesitantly, and slowly opened the door.

Empty bottles of mead littered the floor, chinking like little coins against the wooden door as Dorian pushed it ajar. “Bull?” he repeated, a strange sense of unease washing over him.

Only one candle was lit—on Bull’s writing desk. Dorian could see the massive silhouette of his Qunari partner against the soft glow of candlelight. But he still got no response.

“Drinking without me?” Dorian said with a forced laugh. “You’ll ruin the one good eye you have left sitting alone in the dark.”

Dorian softly kicked an empty bottle out of the way as he traversed the room. Bull had procured three huge crates of Chasind Sack Mead from the Skyhold tavern earlier that day. The inebriated Qunari had already gone completely through two of the crates—the remnants of four hours of heavy drinking now strewn across the floor.

Still not acknowledging Dorian’s arrival, Bull swayed from his chair and grabbed the lid of the last crate with both massive hands. With one forceful tug, the thing cracked open with such a loud and unexpected report that Dorian flinched from it.

“Why… don’t we slow down a little, huh?” Dorian tutted at the drunken Qunari. “Here, I’ll—”

Bull was reaching inside the crate for another bottle when he lost his balance, shaking the floorboards under him as he fell. The giant Qunari crashed bodily to the floor, his back flush against the wall, and gave a monstrous groan.

Dorian rushed forward and knelt beside his partner, softly touching his burly arm. “Okay, yeah. I think that’s enough,” he said goodheartedly. “Look at you… You can’t even stand, you great, boozy lug.”

“Dorian…?” The word was a meager growl from the back of Bull’s throat-- like that of a sleeping dragon roused from his slumber.

“Yes,” Dorian said sarcastically. “This is Dorian. And how is The Iron Bull feeling tonight, hm?”

“I… let it… happen…” Bull said quietly to no one as he stared off into the middle distance.

“No, no you didn’t,” Dorian said, humoring his vague declaration. “You’re just marinated in mead. It’s gone to your head. Now let’s get you to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Dorian tugged at Bull’s arm, trying to heft him to his feet, but it was a lost cause. Bull was a thousand pounds of dead weight and wasn’t going to move so long as he refused to make an effort. Dorian gave an exasperated, defeated huff and dropped into a sitting position next to Bull.

“Vishante kaffas…!” he swore and ran a hand through his own untidy hair. “So help me, if you vomit on my new coat, I’ll never forgive you.”

But Dorian rested his head against Bull’s arm anyway. “Can you pass me one of those bottles?” he asked, resigned to this unorthodox situation.

Bull reached up into the crate and handed a bottle of mead to Dorian without turning his head.

“Thank you,” Dorian said, and popped the cork. “You know, I’ve never tried this brand. We don’t have a lot of Chasind mead in the Tevinter Imperium. We’ve been too busy fighting wars with each other to have any trade relations.” He drank a sip of the stuff and gagged on it almost immediately. “Oh! My! That is… quite _pungent_.”

“He didn’t… even… tell me…” Bull said, his voice low and miserable.

“Your vagaries are leaving me out in the intellectual cold, Bull,” Dorian said. His nose turned as he took another reluctant swig of the mead. “You’ll need to start from the beginning for me to be of any help.”

“Krem…” Bull drawled. “I… found him.”

If Bull was too drunk to manage more than two words at a time, this was going to be a very long night.

“Yes, I assumed that much,” Dorian replied, patiently.

“De- Deceived… me…” Bull slurred, almost incapable of getting his tongue around the first word.

“What?!” Dorian exclaimed. “No, Bull. He wouldn’t,” he said, resolutely. “You two are thick as thieves. I don’t think—”

“I wasn’t… good… enough,” Bull said, hanging his giant, horned head.

“Bull… Bull, don’t,” Dorian said, his heartstrings tightening in his chest. He rubbed Bull’s back in a circular motion to placate him. “You need to sleep this off. You’re not yourself.”

“I… should have--”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Dorian said conclusively, not even sure if what he was saying was true. He had no idea what had transpired between Bull and Krem outside of Skyhold, but he knew that Krem would never do anything to hurt Bull like this. Not in a million years. “Come with me to bed. You can go straight to sleep and we can talk about it in the morning.”

Without answering, Bull gently dropped his hand in Dorian’s lap, his palm facing up. Dorian felt a hard lump forming in his throat.

“Don’t worry. I’m here, Bull,” he sighed and placed his hand into Bull’s. The Qunari’s fingers slowly closed in over Dorian’s hand, and Bull’s shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. A single tear ran down his cheek.

Dorian took a shaky breath, trying his best to steel himself. “Looks like we have a leaky roof,” he said, playing it off as best as he could. “We’ll have to get someone to fix that.”


	18. Of Testing Limits

Krem was jolted awake when his face collided with the wooden floorboards of the barracks.

“Aaaaah, _fuck_ ,” he groaned, rolling onto his back. When he opened his eyes, nothing but darkness filled his line of sight.

“Get up.”

Bull’s familiar, guttural growl startled him to alertness. Krem pushed himself onto his forearms, looking around the pitch-black of the abandoned barracks for his chief. Since yesterday’s siege, all of the soldiers from his barracks had either been killed, relocated to nicer—now unoccupied-- quarters, or were still holed up in the medics’ wing. Krem had been the only one in his squadron who had opted to stay in the old, run-down barracks near the main courtyard. To a fault, he was a man of habit.

“I said _get up_.”

Krem felt Bull’s giant hand grab the front of his tunic and yank him gracelessly to his feet. Krem was temporarily blinded by an iron lantern shining firelight in his face. When the stars left his vision, he saw Bull’s tired, bloodshot eye glaring back at him.

“Chief…” he muttered, his voice thick with lingering grogginess. “You look like shit.”

“Not as shitty as you’re gonna look after I’m done with you,” Bull rumbled as he shoved Krem towards the door.

Krem knew better than to argue. There would be hell to pay for his insubordination already. And it would come in the form of days upon days of grueling, unrelenting training from his chief. Krem sighed, resigned to his fate, and trotted ahead.

Once Krem had wandered outside-- rubbing at his bleary eyes as he went-- his assumptions that the sun hadn’t even risen yet were quickly confirmed. Even the dim, pinkish hues of civil dawn were nowhere to be seen. Krem’s stomach turned as a horrible stench wafted over him. He knew that stench. A pillar of black smoke—blacker even than the night before the dawn—was rising over the ramparts. They were burning the bodies of fallen soldiers just outside the walls of Skyhold.

Krem saw that Bull was, of course, not waiting up for him, and he quickened his pace. He scaled the steps to the upper courtyard where an assemblage of training equipment had been relocated.

“Start stretching,” Bull ordered Krem without turning to face him. “You start drills in ten minutes.”

Krem rolled his shoulders, mentally preparing himself for the strenuous day ahead of him. Lowering himself into a practiced posture, he started with side-to-side stretches. The resulting stress on the muscles in his groin and hamstrings was instantaneous, and it was not a good sign of things to come. Two days of neglecting his training had made him soft, and he already regretted it.

Krem had barely enough time to complete his arm stretches before Bull returned with weights. Krem took one in each hand, testing the resistance of them. He noticed, his heart sinking, that they were heavier than usual.

“Run suicides to the ramparts. Hit both checkpoints marked in the grass for each suicide. If you don’t start dry heaving after twenty of those, we’ll move on to the next drill.”

Bull detailed the regimen impersonally, his voice flat, hard, and demanding.

“You’ll get breakfast when the sun makes it all the way over the eastern wall and not a minute sooner,” Bull said. “If you stop for any reason before I call time, I’ll personally see to it that you go the rest of the day on an empty stomach. And your drills will continue into the afternoon regardless of performance. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, chief,” Krem said roughly.

“Say it again.”

“ _Yes_ , chief,” Krem said, louder.

“ _Again_.”

“ _Yes, chief_.”

Krem heard the sharp twill of Bull’s bird-bone whistle, and his legs automatically kicked into action. His stomach, by that time, was loudly grumbling-- protesting the early-morning exertion. And Krem wanted nothing more in that moment than to see the sunrise.


	19. Of Calling A Witness

By mid-day, Krem was feeling the burn. Not only were his muscles aching for a reprieve, but the pitiless sun in the cloudless, Parvulis sky was beating down on his back and parching his throat. After a battery of push-ups and crunches, Bull blew his bird-bone whistle and told Krem to go get a drink of water.

As Krem poured a mug of cold water over his head in a shady spot next to the tavern, his bound chest pumped with newly-found vigor. All of the goals that Bull had set for him that morning had been duly met, and Krem was feeling particularly confident. Whether or not that was the result that Bull had had in mind, Krem couldn’t tell. But then again, his Qunari chief had been pointedly aloof with his emotions all morning. As such, breakfast with the chief had been unavoidably awkward. But Krem had been far too hungry to care. And now that he had hit his stride, Krem felt like he was ready for whatever Bull had in mind for his afternoon training.

A few minutes later, Varric approached Bull in front of the tavern and told the Qunari in hushed tones that the Inquisitor was going to be publicly passing judgement upon Fenris and Garrett soon. Krem quietly leaned against the tavern wall to eavesdrop on their conversation from behind the large barrel of water. He hid his meddlesome expression behind his empty mug as Varric and Bull talked.

“I just spoke with the Inquisitor.” Varric’s voice was hoarse, like he was coming down with a cold. “She’ll want everyone in attendance for her announcement of Fenris’ and Hawke’s judgement.” The dwarf didn’t look like he had gotten any sleep last night. He had been an unfortunate victim in all of this. Everyone knew how close he and Hawke were, and Krem could see even from across the way that Bull was fidgety with guilt.

Bull crossed his arms over his wide chest. “Did she… ask for your _opinion_ about all of it?” he offered, choosing his words carefully. “I mean, you and Hawke... You guys--”

“She wanted to know my thoughts on it, yeah,” Varric said, shifting uncomfortably. “I was there for the interrogation last night.” Varric ran a hand slowly down his face and took a deep, unsteady breath. It had obviously taken a toll on him, having to treat his best friend like a common criminal. “Come on,” he finally said. “It’s about to start.”

Bull gestured with a sharp incline of his chin for Krem to follow them, and Krem gave a heavy sigh as he tossed his empty mug into the barrel.

There was no way for Krem to guess what would happen in the great hall once they convened. What he _did_ know was that the Inquisitor was a great and dependable leader. Those elven, turquoise eyes that were always so bright with wit and acumen—framed by those dark, Dalish tattoos-- shown in his mind’s eye as he followed Bull and Varric up the steps. Krem had always trusted the Inquisitor to do the right thing in trials of judgement. He felt something akin to morbid curiosity sending rushes of adrenaline through him as he entered the giant foyer.

It crossed Krem’s mind that he would be underdressed in exercise clothes—a meager tunic and cotton pants—during the judgement hearing. But after the siege, everyone else in attendance seemed to be just as disheveled and exhausted as he felt. Regardless, Krem ran a hand through his short, wet hair in an attempt to tame it.

The bustling crowd had been parted down the middle of the hall, revealing the two prisoners down on their knees and the Inquisitor high on her throne. Krem could see, even from the back of the crowd, that Fenris' and Garrett’s hands had been bound behind their backs. Two armed Inquisition soldiers framed them on either side for good measure, but the tired set of their shoulders suggested that the captives were in no mood to fight their way out of this.

When the Inquisitor spoke, her voice boomed throughout the hall. “The judgment of Garrett Hawke and Fenris will hereby commence.”

Josephine wordlessly handed the Inquisitor a clipboard, and the Inquisitor looked over it in deep thought. The uneasy silence in the hall was enough to give Krem the jitters. He wasn’t a big fan of crowds, but thankfully his workout had drained him of the energy required to be too anxious about it.

“Garrett Hawke. Fenris.” The Inquisitor handed back the clipboard and looked down on her prisoners. “You are charged with conspiracy, kidnapping, and entering Skyhold under false pretenses. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

It was Hawke who spoke up first. He raised his chin and took a strong breath. “I plead guilty to all charges,” he said. His tired, ragged voice sounded as if he were speaking past shards of glass lodged in his throat. “I have nothing to contest. If there’s--”

Fenris’ voice suddenly broke through Hawke’s confession: “I request that Cremisius Aclassi stand as witness to our defense!”

An outburst of discontent rippled through the crowd. Dozens of inquiring, accusatory eyes turned to look at Krem all at once, and he was frozen in place with shock.

After what felt like an age of tense silence, the Inquisitor answered, “Very well. Cremisius Aclassi, will you step forward and testify on behalf of the defendants?”

At first, Krem couldn’t find his voice. It felt like his larynx was being choked by an angry giant.

“I… I will,” he proclaimed. The words in his ears didn’t sound like they were his own, but they had to have been because afterwards Krem felt a rough shove from behind him. He turned to see Bull staring down at him with a hard, resentful look.

Krem tore his gaze away from the chief and furled his hands at his sides as he marched through the empty space in the crowd. Every living soul in the hall watched him pass with unspoken derision.

 _I’ve agreed to defend the people responsible for the deaths of dozens of Inquisition soldiers,_ he thought, his spirit withering with each step. _Andraste… if you’re listening, you can kiss my Tevinter ass after the chief kills me for this._


	20. Of A House Divided

When Krem approached the throne, it occurred to him how long it had been since he had actually spoken with the Inquisitor. He had always been a behind-the-scenes member of the Inquisition—one tooth of a small cog working within the bigger machine that was the Inquisition. The hugeness and the precariousness of the situation that he was in dawned on him as he looked up at the face of his chief’s boss. It was like going to the chantry and feeling the eyes of The Maker staring down at him.

“Cremisius.” The Inquisitor spoke in a soft voice that reflected none of the antagonism that he expected. He wished that she would just yell at him and berate him like the chief would in her place. Her pitying tone gnawed at his pride, and his fingernails dug into the calloused palms of his hands out of frustration.

“Inquisitor,” he flatly said and genuflected alongside Garrett and Fenris with his head hung low. “I want to apologize for—"

“There is no need,” the Inquisitor hastily said. “You are not being judged by the Inquisition today." Even with the Inquisitor herself saying so, the heated glares of a hundred people drilling holes into his back were evidence to the contrary. "If you would like to testify for the defendants, now is the time. Stand, Cremisius, and speak your piece.”

Krem brought himself to his feet and reached into his sweat-dampened clothes for the envelope that Garrett had given to him in the carriage. "While I was traveling with the prisoners, I was informed that my father is being held as a slave in Kirkwall. I was going with Garrett and Fenris to liberate him."

Krem approached the throne and handed the wrinkled parchment to the Inquisitor. "I was drugged and kidnapped by Fenris," he continued, "but I was complicit in their plans once I realized that my father was in danger... and that they were willing to take me to him."

Krem's words hung heavy in the great hall as the Inquisitor read over his letter. Olivier Aclassi’s words-- words that he had read countless times the previous night-- replayed in his mind: _I will see you again very soon. I love you._

"I'm... so sorry for my betrayal, Lady Inquisitor," Krem said. "I hope that my father's message will help you reach a decision."

Krem turned on his heel and made his leave without waiting for the Inquisitor’s response. He passed the men and women who he had fought alongside before his actions had drawn a line in the sand.

_Cassandra. Varric._

_Skinner. Rocky. Stitches._

_Dorian._

_The Chief._

Krem descended the flight of steps to the upper courtyard without waiting for the Inquisitor’s final deliberation. He found a quiet, shady spot next to the tavern and sat there, hugging his knees tightly to his chest.

After some time, he felt a gentle hand touch his shoulder. Jolted from his thoughts, he looked up and saw Josephine standing over him. He hadn’t dared look at her during the proceedings, but her expression was wracked with emotion as she looked down at him. He could see tear streaks on her cheeks.

“Krem…” she said softly, her shaky voice sending butterflies fluttering in his chest. “I’m just… so relieved that you’re alright.”

That gesture of genuine, wholehearted compassion-- something that had been so extraneous in the past few days-- made Krem's heartstrings go taut without warning. Josephine pulled him to his feet and he caught her in a fierce, unplanned embrace. Krem could smell the juniper and honey in her hair as she pulled him close.

“If you… would like some company tonight…” Josephine muttered, running her hand up the nape of Krem’s neck and through his damp hair.

Krem sensed prying eyes on him from across the courtyard and glanced up on a whim. Bull was standing there… his cold, analytical gaze lingering on their embrace for just a moment before he turned and disappeared into the dispersing crowd.

“That sounds wonderful,” Krem admitted as he detached from Josphine, brushing away the tears from her cheek with his thumb. “It’s… been a long day, hasn’t it?”

Josephine’s dark eyes considered him for a moment before catching his lips in a chaste kiss. Krem inhaled sharply out of surprise and pulled her against him, deepening the kiss as he lost his fingers in the cascading waves of Josephine’s soft, perfumed hair. She ended the kiss far sooner than he would have liked-- his heart beating out strong rhythms against his ribcage-- but her gentle smile was enough to reassure him.

“How about dinner first?” she said, her hands skimming down to his hips. “My treat.”


	21. Of Biting Off More Than One Can Chew

After-dark festivities were kicking off in Val Royeaux as street lamps were magically lit and glowed beautifully through the night. The city never closed its shops or restaurants and therefore remained lively through all hours of the day.

Since his father had once been an illustrious tailor, Krem visited Val Royeaux on occasion to peruse the clothing shops out of curiosity. But tonight he was here on a date with Josephine. After showering and putting on his most expensively-made outfit—a sleek, grey coat with matching dress pants of his own design-- Josephine had called for a carriage to escort the two of them to dinner at the most prestigious city in Orlais.

Krem was giddy with excitement as he pointed out the outfit on a mannequin in a Val Royeaux shop window to Josephine and gushed about its maker, Antoine Beneventi. Josephine warmly held onto her partner’s arm-- her head resting on his shoulder—as she basked in his joyful energy. She was modeling a stunning, gold-and-silver cocktail dress with a diamond-encrusted tiara holding up her dark hair. Even in the resplendent streets of Val Royeux, they had turned quite a few curious heads as an impressively put-together power couple.

_“Isn’t that the ambassador of the Inquisition?”_

_“Who is that man she’s with? An obscure noble from some far away land?”_

Krem was deaf to all of the gossip that surrounded them. All of his attention was on Josephine and this thrilling escapade that she had arranged at the drop of a hat. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had taken time to just let loose and have fun. It was, by all means, a welcomed change of pace.

“Antoine Beneventi is a good friend of my father’s,” Krem explained to Josephine as they walked towards the eatery district. “He was a wealth of inspiration to me as a child.”

“Leliana has showed me the stuffed nug that you sewed for her name-day present this year,” Josephine said, intertwining her fingers in his with a smile. “You’re quite the couturier, Krem. It is very charming.”

Krem felt his face getting warm at Josephine’s flirtatious compliments. “I’ve been too nervous to sew you anything,” he admitted. “I didn’t want it to be anything less than my best work.”

Josephine airily laughed against the back of her hand, and the sound was more beautiful to Krem than even the most pristine silver bells at the chantry. “Anything you make me would be perfect.”

“I’ll start on something as soon as I can,” Krem promised.

The two of them approached the maître d' at Val Royeaux’s most extravagant restaurant and Josephine put on the charm. “A candlelit table for two, please,” she said.

Josephine retrieved an elegant business card from her clutch purse and slid it to the maître d'. After briefly looking it over, he tucked it away into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Right this way, Lady Josephine,” he announced with a flourish of his gloved hand.

“What was that about?” Krem asked her under his breath as they followed the waiter to their table. “Don’t we need a reservation?”

“I have previous dealings with the executive chef who owns this restaurant,” she explained to him. “After I saved her estate from bankruptcy, she promised that I could walk right in for dinner the next time that I was in town. No reservation required.”

Krem knew that Josephine was second to none at using her lofty connections to open doors for the Inquisition. But even so, he continued to be impressed by Josephine's inexplicable ability to talk and charm her way into even the most exclusive circles of Orlais. 

Once they reached their table, Krem pulled out Josephine’s chair, and as she sat down, something terrible and unexpected caught his eye from across the room.

“Krem? Josephine? I can’t believe it!”

Dorian was waving excitedly to them from six tables away with Bull trying to hide his face in his hand out of embarrassment. But of course those giant Qunari horns gave him away.

“Oh my!" Josephine exclaimed. "It’s Dorian and the Iron Bull! What a coincidence!”

Krem couldn’t ignore the sudden sinking feeling in his gut. He had forgotten that it was Dorian’s name-day today. Even with the barrage of unfortunate events that had surrounded him in the past few days, he couldn’t believe his dumb luck.

“Vishante kaffas…” he muttered to himself as Josephine excitedly waved back to Dorian.

“Let’s push some tables together and have our dinner with them!” Josephine cheerfully suggested to Krem. “We can make it a double date!”

The pure delight glistening in Josephine’s eyes dashed any hopes Krem had that he could talk his way out of it.

“That… would definitely be something…!” he said, doing his best to force a semblance of enthusiasm at the thought of joining Dorian and the Chief for a romantic dinner.

Josephine bounced Krem’s hands in hers and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll go ahead and put in an order for some champagne,” she said. “Is there anything in particular that you want?”

Krem glanced over Josephine’s shoulder and saw Dorian give him a knowing wink.

“Pick your favorite,” he told her. “Just... order a lot of it.”


	22. Of Having Egg on One's Face

As Krem sat at their newly-conjoined dinner table, it occurred to him that he had never seen Josephine and Dorian interact at length before tonight. But seeing them now, it was like they were the closest of childhood friends. The two socialites leaned into their conversation at the dinner table-- completely ignoring their gourmet food—as they chitchatted about goings-on at Skyhold.

“ _You_ were the one who talked Solas out of wearing that Plaidweave monstrosity?” Dorian asked Josephine with a lilted smile.

“ _Technically_ it was Leliana,” she said, twirling her flute of champagne. “But yes. I played a small part in his sudden change of wardrobe.”

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Dorian swore, popping a grape in his mouth. “I mean, he’s what—a thousand years old? You’d think he’d have better fashion sense!”

Krem had been reclining in his chair, his arm casually resting around Josephine’s shoulders as he listened in on their gossip. He discreetly glanced at Bull from across the table, hiding his curious look behind a champagne glass. The disgruntled Qunari had indubitably opted out of the conversation and was hacking away at his t-bone Gurn steak as if it had personally insulted his tamassran.

“He said it was too cold.”

Both Josephine and Dorian turned their attention to Krem after his sudden outburst as if they had forgotten that he was still sitting at the table with them.

“Too cold?” Josephine asked with genuine concern. “He told you this, Krem?”

“Yeah,” he said, fidgeting in his seat. He felt like he had somehow intruded on their personal discussion. “Solas approached me a couple weeks ago—said he knew that I was the son of a famous tailor—and wanted to know if I could make something warmer for him and still stay inconspicuous on covert missions.”

There was a beat of confused silence.

“Plaidweave is made from wool—imported from the highlands of Ferelden. It traps body heat better than cotton or silk,” Krem said, hoping that this would round out his explanation. “Solas wasn’t used to the extreme cold of the Orlesian mountains, and he was tired of having to drink hot tea to keep himself warm. So I made him a more specialized wool coat that wasn’t patterned in bright yellow.”

“ _Cremisius_!” Josephine teasingly exclaimed. “You’ve apparently sewn presents for everyone in Skyhold except for me. I never realized that I had so much competition for your affection!”

Dorian scoffed a bit louder than necessary. “Krem and Solas. What a demonstratively perfect pair,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I can hear the wedding bells at the Chantry now.”

Krem choked on his drink at that, and all three of them laughed together at the thought of it. It was almost like this horrific week—full of death and betrayal-- hadn’t happened, after all.

“So, Iron Bull,” Josephine said, her voice still jumpy with laughter. “What has Krem made for you? Surely he’s sewn you plenty of gifts in all the time that you’ve traveled together.”

Bull looked up from his plate at that, his mouth full to bursting with overcooked Gurn meat. Krem felt a blush creep across his cheeks and hated himself for it.

Bull swallowed heavily to clear his throat. “Not a thing,” he said flatly—conclusively-- and went back to chomping on his steak.

“Oh,” Josephine said, trying to hide her disappointment. “Well, I’m sure you’ve both been very busy with your--”

“ _Josephine_ ,” Krem interrupted her under his breath with an edge of denotation to his tone.

Josephine realized in a tense moment that she had said something inappropriate and hid her mouth behind a cloth napkin.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Dorian didn’t seem to discern anything out of Bull’s reaction, but his gaze remained just long enough on Krem to make the Charger’s skin crawl.

Without any preamble, Krem brusquely got up from his seat. “I have to visit the lavatory,” he said. “Which way is it?”

“Down that hall, to the right,” Josephine answered in a small, contrite voice.

Krem began to walk away from the table-- his brow furrowed with unexplained distress-- when Josephine unexpectedly took his hand. He turned to her and she wordlessly reached up to touch his cheek. Krem saw the apologetic gleam in her dark eyes. Without thinking, Krem leaned down and kissed her on the lips, lingering there for just a moment, before taking his leave.

Afterwards, Dorian turned his nose up at Bull, his disapproval clear from the sharp angle of his moustache. “ _Of course_ you would bring down the mood, Amatus. Is there somewhere else you’d rather be on my name-day than having dinner in the most expensive restaurant in Val Royeaux?” He left the conversation wide open for one of Bull’s dirty jokes, but Bull just grunted into his mangled, half-eaten steak in response.

Dorian made a show of rolling his eyes and gave Josephine a necessitous look. “Does dessert sound good to you, Josephine?”

Josephine managed a small smile. “How about the berry tart?”

Dorian smiled back at her. “You’ve read my mind, Lady Ambassador.”


	23. Of Lions and Pride

“It never occurred to me that you share a name-day with Empress Celene!” Josephine exclaimed as they all walked towards the outskirts of Val Royeaux.

Krem felt much better with a few glasses of champagne and a hearty meal in him, and dinner hadn’t been nearly as much of a debacle as he had feared. Josephine had affectionately locked her arm in his as she walked and chatted with Dorian. The two socialites had been on the same emotional wavelength for the entire evening, and Krem only had enough interest and patience left in him to listen to about half of their ongoing conversation.

“Oh, yes,” Dorian said, his voice noticeably slurred from the substantial amount of champagne that he had imbibed at dinner. “It’s always nice to be able to ride on the coattails of royalty and treat their name-day celebrations as your own.”

A large crowd had already gathered on the edge of the lake, and Bull grunted as a couple of drunken Orlesian partygoers accidentally spilled mead on his pinstripe pants. The unsuspecting elven women turned to apologize, but they weren’t expecting a 7-foot Qunari to be glaring back at them. Bull just gave an exasperated scoff.

“Go on, then,” he grumbled, and the couple nodded furiously before disappearing into the crowd. Bull rolled his uncovered eye and crossed his arms tightly over his barrel chest.

After watching all of this, Krem stifled a laugh that had bubbled unexpectedly on his tongue. Bull saw it—his one eye going wide with surprise—and turned his head towards the lake to hide his reddening face. The champagne had lightened their collective moods, after all.

The fireworks boat had docked on an island in the middle of the lake, and some workers were busily setting up pyrotechnic equipment. A quartet of inebriated Orlesians had started singing a loud, jaunty version of ‘Empress of Fire’.

 _Empress of fire!_  
_In the reign of the lion!_  
_Eclipsed in the eye of_  
_The empire of we Orlesians!_  
  
_Empress of fire!_  
_What season may come!_  
_We fight for the day_  
_You'll restore our heart!_  
_And bring us to glory!_

The end of the chorus was met with jovial cheers from the rest of the crowd, and the first fireworks bolted up into the sky. Josephine gently touched Krem’s cheek, and he leaned into the kiss as the fireworks exploded in a rain of colorful light.

Dorian and Bull held each other under the stars as they watched the light show, but Bull seemed inexplicably distracted with other thoughts.

“You're not too upset, are you?” Dorian asked him, genuinely concerned about his partner. Then he smirked. “I never liked those pants, anyway.”

Bull didn't want his own hang-ups to get in the way of Dorian enjoying his name-day. As far as he knew, it was the first time that Dorian had been able to properly celebrate it. “Everything’s great,” he answered, trying his best to seem sincere, but Dorian wasn’t convinced.

“Amatus…” Dorian sighed, pulling Bull’s strong arms around him. “We can leave if you want. I can tell that you aren't—“

Bull interrupted Dorian with a hard kiss just as the show climaxed with a massive barrage of fireworks. Dorian hungrily deepened the kiss, his hands wrapping around Bull's neck for just a moment before he withdrew from it. Bull saw tears in Dorian’s eyes, their faces awash in flashes of red and blue light.

“I’ve never been happier than I am with you, Kadan,” Bull professed, and Dorian knew it to be true.

Dorian gave a breathy, relieved laugh, and when he blinked, tears fell down his cheeks.

“Took you long enough to say it, you silver-tonged ox,” Dorian chided him, and they kissed again.


	24. Of Limits and Boundaries

When they got back to Skyhold, Krem and Josephine were noisily butchering the lines to ‘Empress of Fire’ and nursing bottles of wine that they bought for the carriage ride home. Plenty of Orlesian Inquisition soldiers were celebrating Celene’s name-day as well, and the festivities back at the hold were far from wrapping up. As they passed the tavern, Krem saw Varric and Anders drinking mead and laughing together—rowdily sharing fond memories from their old Kirkwall days. He was relieved that they had finally settled their differences over a cold pint.

And then something surprised Krem; he saw Garrett and Fenris drinking alongside them.

“They were acquitted?” Krem asked Josephine, unable to temper his surprise. “The Inquisitor really let them off the hook?”

“No, of course not,” Josephine giggled, her arm around his waist as she walked. Krem wasn’t sure if she could even stand on her own at this point. “The Inquisitor… She didn’t lock them in the prisons—but—they have to work for her—for two years—here at Skyhold.”

Krem was certain that Josephine was getting a lot drunker-- a lot faster-- than him, and took a hearty swig of his wine to remedy it. It was strange; she didn’t seem like the kind of person to drink heavily at parties. And Krem usually didn’t have trouble keeping up with Bull, even on his Chief’s most ambitious and carefree benders.

Josephine was drinking with purpose tonight.

“Lady Josephine…” Krem called, wondering past the fog forming in his mind how he was going to persuade the bottle out of her hand.

“ _Cremisius_!” she countered, her drunken voice carrying throughout the courtyard. “We’ve been-- kissing— and flirting-- all night, my love! Unless I’ve been—far too subtle with it—and you’ve— somehow-- misund—mis— _misunderstood_ —my intentions?”

Krem felt his cheeks getting warmer as Josephine’s drunken confessions played with his heart.

“I can assure you, that’s not the case, Lady Josephine.”

Josephine giggled playfully as she twirled in place—thick strands of her raven-black hair falling in uneven ribbons out of her tiara. Krem was enamored at the sight of it.

“Call me Josie,” she told him with a smile brighter than sunlight. “At least just for tonight.”

Krem couldn’t help but smile.

“I’ll try, Lady Josephine,” he said.

* * *

 

Krem could feel his inhibitions failing him as Josephine loosened his clothing back at her quarters— her soft hands teasing him with every touch. His muddled mind was tasked with satisfying Josephine’s skillful tongue with his own and removing his undershirt at the same time. He finally got it over his head and tossed it onto the floor, revealing his binder. His chest strained against the tight fabric. It was clingy and heavy with sweat. Josephine tried to pull it up, herself, but before she could, Krem roughly grabbed her by the wrist.

In a moment of tense silence-- punctuated with hot, heavy breaths—Krem felt a cold drop of panic at the back of his mind.

“Please… just leave it,” he said softly. “I don’t want…”

Krem’s voice trailed, but Josephine did what he asked.

“I don’t want to force you to do anything that will make you uncomfortable,” she told him. He heard the honesty in her voice, but there was something else there, too. And it was far too close to pity to be comforting.

An unshakable guilt clawed at him. He wanted this. _Josephine_ wanted this. But emotional intimacy was never his strong suit. Physical intimacy, even less so.

Krem had his back against the wall, unable to look Josephine in the eyes. His hands detached from Josephine’s hips and he hung his head. Josephine tenderly ran her hands through his cropped hair and she slowly, experimentally pulled him close.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready, Krem,” she said, no doubt noticing his heartbeat hammering against his chest. “This won’t be the last night we see each other.”

But Krem could hear the tinge of uncertainty in her voice. He could feel her hands trembling as she held onto him, wondering if the next day—the next unforeseen battle— would finally be the one that would take him from her forever.

“I’ll never leave you,” he told her, forcing his voice to stay strong. “Not for long. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Josephine gave a small gasp, and Krem realized she was crying.

“But Krem! I thought I’d lost you!" she said, her voice wracked with tears. “I was so afraid that I’d lost you for good!”

When she looked up at him, Krem stroked the tears from her cheek with his thumb, her dark eyes filled to the brim with unbridled love and compassion for him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised her.

Josephine seemed conflicted, but she nodded after a moment.

“I trust you, Krem,” she said, her voice still shaky from crying. “And I know that we’re going very fast… perhaps  _too_ fast.”

Krem gave a throaty laugh at that.

“We _did_ just have our first kiss a few hours ago,” he confessed. “How about we pick it up again tomorrow?”

Josephine laughed with him and nodded decisively.

“Tomorrow,” she agreed with a smile.


	25. Of Lingering Doubts

_Maybe you should go check on the Iron Bull on your way back,_ Josephine had suggested before Krem started walking towards the barracks. _I think he might be ready to talk about what’s been bothering him._

Other than a few drunken stragglers who were making their way out of the tavern after last call, Krem was alone in the upper courtyard as he contemplated his next move. Go back to the barracks and sleep off the champagne, or go to Bull’s place and hash out what was bothering them. Krem gave a heavy sigh and pinched at the bridge of his nose, staving off an ever-worsening, alcohol-induced headache. He knew what the right thing to do would be, but the thought of confronting his chief was impossibly daunting. Maybe a month of rigorous physical training _wouldn’t_ kill him after all.

“… _Fasta vass_ ,” he swore-- draining his bottle of wine in one, mighty swig-- and made his way towards the ramparts.

* * *

 

Krem pounded on the door to Bull’s residence with the side of his fist and then propped his hands on his hips as he impatiently waited for his chief to answer. He gave another weary sigh and glared at the ground as if it were the scorched cobblestones that had put him in this situation.

“What the hell am I doing,” he muttered, and as if on cue, the door was pulled ajar.

It was, of course, the Iron Bull who was standing in the doorway with an unmistakable look of surprise. “Krem…” he muttered dumbly, but certainly not angrily. “Can you… come back tomorrow? I’m kind of—“

“No, I’m not _coming back tomorrow_ ,” he said in a mocking tone, and barged into Bull’s residence. The wine had made him belligerent and aggravated. The good vibes that had been amplified with Josephine had been switched with the lingering contempt that he hadn’t realized was burning so strongly for his chief. Inside Bull’s quarters, all the lights were dimmed and empty mead bottles were littered everywhere. Josephine wasn't the only one who had been drinking her problems away. Without thinking much of it, Krem turned on his heel and faced the chief with a look of absolute indignation.

“Well?” Bull blurted out, irritation plain on his face. “You’ve got my attention. So spit it out, Krem.”

Maybe he was sobering up too quickly, but Krem felt a massive wave of sheepishness wash over him as he realized that he hadn’t anticipated on making it this far into his plan.

“Y- You lied,” he said awkwardly. It was the first thing that came to mind.

Bull’s posture straightened as he closed the door, confusion arching his brow for a moment before his features darkened again.

“You’re drunk,” he said, simply. “Go back to the barracks before you—“

“You lied to Josephine,” he brazenly exclaimed. “You said I never made you anything.”

Even in the inky darkness, Krem could see Bull’s wariness at going down this road with him.

“I saved you the embarrassment of Josephine knowing the truth,” he said. “Now go back to the barracks and sober up before--”

“After I started travelling with The Chargers, I sewed presents for you every chance I got,” he protested, his chest tight with emotions he didn’t realize he had been harboring. “I made you toys and clothes and wallets!” he shouted. “I even made you a fucking pot holder, Chief! You didn’t even need a pot holder!”

Bull advanced on him without warning and Krem backed against the wall out of fright.

“Get it out of your system,” the Chief said, his voice like rough gravel. “What happened next.”

It wasn’t a question. Bull knew exactly what had happened. Krem could feel the tears welling up in his eyes and he glared at the floor to hide it.

“You burned all of it,” he said, his voice tight and uneven. “One night you built a massive bonfire and just threw everything that I made for you into it, one-by-one.” Krem’s hands tightened into angry fists at his sides. _Like it didn't even matter_ , he thought. Krem wanted to punch Bull in his stupid, know-it-all face. “Why…?” he asked in a small, defeated voice. “Why did you do it?”

Bull loomed over him, his face a mask of professionalism.

“Because you were 18-years-old and you hadn’t grown into your emotions yet,” he stated, a tinge of guilt threading its way into his voice. “You projected things onto me that I never should have reciprocated.” Bull’s hands were gripping at his biceps out of frustration. “And I shouldn’t have let it go on for as long as it did.”  

Krem shook his head defiantly, still not looking up from the floor.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Chief,” he said. “You can’t keep treating me like I am.”

Krem felt Bull’s heavy hand fall on his shoulder, and he snapped his chin up with a jolt. And despite everything, Bull was tiredly smiling back at him. 

“I know,” he said, his voice low and heartfelt. “You're a good man, Krem. And right now we both have people in our lives who need us more than we need each other.”

“Dorian,” Krem said for him.

“And Josephine,” Bull countered.

Krem wiped the tears from his eyes and shoved Bull’s giant hand off of his shoulder. Then, without warning, he leaped forward, wrapping his arms around Bull’s chest in a strong hug. Bull hesitated for a moment, but then he pulled Krem into a big, warm hug that nearly choked the breath out of him.

“Thanks, Chief,” Krem said. _For everything_ , he thought.


	26. Of Fighting A Losing Battle

“98…! 99…! 100!”

Krem collapsed onto his stomach and laughed—equal parts breathless and delighted.

“Looks like you owe me a beer, Chief!” he gasped. “The good stuff. Not that Orlesian shit.”

Bull grabbed the back of Krem’s tunic and effortlessly hoisted the Tevinter Charger to his feet.

“Yeah, alright,” Bull said, fighting back a smile. “Next time I’ll make you do 200 push-ups… with _weights_.”

“ _Easy_ ,” Krem retorted.

Josephine merrily applauded him from the shade, Dorian enjoying the view of Krem’s training at her side. They sat together on a large blanket that Krem had made for Dorian last month with a picnic laid out between them.

“Come take a break, Krem!” Josephine called out to him, waving her arm jovially. “We have grapes and oranges for you!”

“For _him_?” Dorian said in jest. “How will my skin ever stay healthy and clear if Krem eats all of the grapes that I worked so hard to peel?”

Krem wiped his face with a towel and draped it over his shoulder with a smile as he approached Josephine, who stood and pushed a grape past the Charger’s lips.

“You asked _Cole_ to peel those grapes,” she told Dorian matter-of-factly.

“And it was quite an effort to get through a conversation with him, believe me,” Dorian said. “He spent ten minutes regaling me about how a stray cat was ‘wailing, wanting, worried’ about its owner who had died in the siege.” Dorian wiped an orange on his coat before he began peeling it. “I thought I’d lose my appetite from the heartache.”

“That’s terrible,” Josephine muttered and Krem impulsively wrapped his arm around her waist.

“That _is_ pretty messed up,” Krem attested. “And I’m not even a cat person.”

“Five minutes, Krem!” Bull called out to him from across the courtyard as he rearranged the exercise equipment. “Then you’re going to start your next set.”

“10-4, Chief!” Krem answered and kissed Josephine on the cheek before he withdrew to the water barrel. Josephine crossed her arms and watched him go with a licentious smirk.

“Careful, Josie,” Dorian teased her. “You wouldn’t want to get drool on that nice, golden blouse.”

Josephine gave an affronted scoff and shoved Dorian playfully.

“I did not _drool_!” she exclaimed, unable to hold back a laugh.

After five minutes of relaxation with Josephine and Dorian, Bull called Krem back to the middle of the courtyard to resume training. Krem tossed his towel onto the ground and stretched his back muscles one last time as he approached Bull.

“What did you have in mind, Chief?” he asked.

Bull sized him up without any of the humor that he had shown during the rest of the day.

“Hand-to-hand training,” he said.

For a moment, Krem wasn't sure that he had heard him right.

“You mean…?”

“Pin me to the ground,” Bull said. “No weapons. No magic. No bullshit.”

Krem took a few steps back and lowered into a defensive stance.

“I don’t need my maul to knock you out, Chief,” he declared, but there was a shred of doubt tapping at the back of his mind as Bull lowered his posture and raised his boulder-like fists. There was something glinting in Bull’s eye that seemed more dangerous than any enemy mercenary that they had encountered on the road.

Krem kicked off without warning and started throwing punches that Bull easily parried without losing any ground. The challenge of taking down his Chief single-handed was too good to pass up. The thrill of it lit up his face with a wide, mischievous smile.

“Oh dear…” Dorian said, touching his face out of concern.

“What’s wrong?” Josephine asked him, unperturbed about the turn of events. “They’re just practicing, right?”

“Bull doesn’t ‘practice’,” Dorian replied. “He won’t pull his punches until Krem concedes defeat.”

“ _Until_?” Josephine retorted. “You said that as if there’s no way Krem will win.”

“Yes,” Dorian muttered. “That, I did.”

Krem dodge-rolled to the right—into Bull’s blind spot—and kicked out at his legs. But Bull easily foresaw it and shifted back his stance.

“Still picking the most obvious tactics,” Bull scolded him, and rammed Krem in one, powerful thrust. The side of Bull’s enormous left arm hit Krem like a battering ram and threw him violently to the ground.

Josephine gasped, covering her mouth to keep from calling out for him.

“Maker’s breath…!” she exclaimed, her small voice muffled by her hands.

Dorian’s hand scrunched at his face as he forced himself to watch the ill-fated match.

Krem spat out the dirt from his mouth and jumped to his feet with an angry war cry. He charged at Bull again, his fist pulled back as he ran. Bull parried every punch without breaking a sweat, not letting a single blow land.

“You’ll wear yourself out that way,” Bull reproached him. “Find an opening!”

Krem gave a frustrated grunt and dropped low to the ground in one, swift motion. He kicked up towards Bull’s crotch and Bull grabbed the end of his leg automatically before it could find purchase.

Before Krem could even get out an involuntary Tevene expletive, Bull hefted Krem into the air by the leg and threw him bodily into a vault table nearly thirty feet away. Krem collapsed in a heap with a painful groan. Josephine started to run towards him, but Dorian grabbed her by the hand, stopping her in her tracks. Josephine spun around to give him a wide-eyed, incredulous look.

“Dorian, we have to end this!” she said.

“The only one who can end this is Krem,” Dorian told her in a level voice. “And I won’t be the one to tell the Inquisitor that she lost her most valuable ambassador because a rampaging Qunari trampled dearly departed Josephine Montilyet into the dust.”

When Josephine turned her attention back to the match, Bull had grabbed Krem by the arm and had it pinned roughly behind his back. Krem was on his knees, trying his hardest not to lose face.

“ _Say it_!” Bull roared, and a flock of birds fled from a nearby tree.

Krem sputtered as the pressure on his arm intensified, but he didn’t call for mercy.

“Do your worst!” he growled, and Bull roughly grabbed Krem’s hair to keep him from escaping his hold.

“You really think I won’t do it?” Bull snarled, and increased the pressure on Krem’s arm. Krem gave a brief, painful shout, and knew that his arm would be broken if he didn’t call off the fight.

“Krem, _please_!” Josephine cried out to him.

The Chief would do it. There was no doubt about it. But his damnable pride gritted Krem's teeth and turned his resolve to unwavering steel.

“One word and I’ll make it stop,” Bull said, but Krem felt the revulsion clotting in his stomach at the very thought of it.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Krem spat into the dirt, and without a moment of hesitation, Bull jerked Krem's arm out of its socket with a vulgar pop.

Krem was on his back, screaming in agonized anger in an instant. And Bull just turned on his heel-- apathetically picking up his towel off the ground as he went—and walked towards the great hall as if nothing had happened.

Josephine and Dorian rushed to the scene and Krem screamed, “ _Don’t touch it_! Don’t touch it…!” His voice was pitchy and panicked from the crushing pain in his shoulder. The head of Krem's bone was jutting out at an unnatural angle against his skin.

“We have to put it back in place, Krem,” Dorian said, barely keeping the contempt from his voice. “I can't apply my healing magic until your humerus is back in its joint.”

Krem angrily blurted out the most profane Tevene phrase that he knew, and Dorian positioned himself to fix the disjointed bone.

“My mother may have been a flirt, but even _she_ has standards,” Dorian sarcastically said in response.

“Not _your_ mother,” Krem gasped, grateful for the distraction of semantics. “The Chief’s stupid Tamassran… There’s no word for it in— **AARRGGHH!** **_FUCK…!_** _”_

Dorian wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep breath as he looked at his finished work. Meanwhile, Josephine grabbed Krem’s hand for support, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Josie, dear,” Dorian said calmly. “Would you please go get some ice from the tavern? I think he’s going to need it soon.”

Josephine nodded, still visibly distraught, and silently dashed into the tavern.

“Why did you tell her that?” Krem muttered, his bruised ego somehow the sorest injury that he had sustained from the fight. “I know your magic can keep down the swelling.”

“Because I didn’t want her to hear the free advice that I’m going to give you,” Dorian said, his voice suddenly tight with anger. Krem was so taken aback by the resentment in his tone that he didn’t protest. “I overheard what you and Bull said last night. And the two of you are so unimaginably thick-headed that it looks like I’m going to have to be the one to tell you this, but I’ll only say it once: The real reason that Bull never pursued sex with you is because you’re reckless and you refuse to admit that you have limits.”

Krem averted his eyes, unable to move with Dorian looming over him.

“You were eavesdropping on us,” he said, his voice an accusatory growl.

“I was tied to the headrest of Bull’s bed one room over with a ball gag in my mouth,” Dorian snapped. “I didn’t have a lot of say in the matter.”

“Get to the point.”

“The point is that Bull wouldn’t put me in the… _positions_ that he does if he wasn’t sure that I’d use a safeword if I was ever at my limit. And when he gets cross, I have to use it more often than I’d like. Including last night... and the night before..." Dorian gave a weary sigh. "And the night before that.”

Krem didn’t know how to respond to that so Dorian dealt the finishing blow.

“The word is ‘katoh’, by the way,” he said just as Josephine returned with the ice. “You can practice saying it while you’re holed up in the infirmary.”


	27. Of Hitting Rock Bottom

“This is so stupid,” Krem complained as Anders began to apply a sling to his right arm in Skyhold’s infirmary tower. “The arm didn’t even break; it’s just a little swollen.”  
  
“Your Qunari friend really did a number on the tendons in your shoulder,” Anders said, decisively overruling Krem’s objections to the sling. “If what Varric said about your tendency to overexert yourself after sustaining severe injuries is accurate,” he continued. “I think it’s best to just tie it down to avoid any further complications.”  
  
Krem scoffed, his frustration mounting with each passing second. “So how long am I stuck wearing this thing?” he asked.  
  
“At least a week,” Anders answered.  
  
Krem nearly had an aneurism right then and there.  
  
“A  _week_?!” he sputtered.  
  
“At least,” Anders insisted.  
  
Dorian, who had accompanied Krem to the infirmary along with Josephine, slowly ran a hand down his mustachioed face.  
  
“That means no training and no missions for the next seven days,” Dorian said, immediately resigned to the diagnosis.  
  
“At least,” Anders repeated.  
  
Krem colorfully swore in Tevene and fell back in his chair, causing a painful jolt to ricochet up his spine and explode at his injured shoulder. Josephine promptly slapped him on the back of the head.  
  
“Don’t act like this isn’t your fault, Krem,” she scolded him. “It’s bad enough when you get hurt because of enemies of the Inquisition, but you just had to spur on the Iron Bull during what should have been an uneventful training session.”  
  
Krem turned to look her, not believing what he was hearing. “You’re saying it’s  _my_  fault that the Chief put me in the infirmary with a ruined shoulder?” He angrily kicked a wooden bucket of water on the ground in front of him and it collided with the opposite stone wall with a loud clatter, spilling its contents across the floor. “The same goddamn shoulder that  _just_  got done healing?!”  
  
Startled by Krem's outburst into taking a step backwards, Josephine collected herself and glared at him, her arms folded over her chest. “The Iron Bull gave you more than one chance to call off the fight and you didn’t,” she said. “I’m not saying that what he did was right, but you could have easily avoided it if you weren’t so--!”  
  
“ _Reckless_! I know!” Krem shouted, his voice booming in the small room. “Second verse, same as the first! Sing another fucking tune, why don’t you! I hear you’re good at it!”  
  
Dorian stepped in front of Krem and forcefully grabbed his chin, squashing his mouth shut. “Hold your bratty tongue, you insufferable little urchin!” he snarled, his face twisted with malice. “You made a mistake and now you’re paying for it! Now have some dignity about it before you break something other than your devoted girlfriend’s heart!” Dorian thrust Krem’s chin away from him in disgust and left the infirmary in a huff of frustration.  
  
Josephine was standing to the side, hugging her stomach as if she were holding herself together. Krem’s self-awareness came back to him in one, horrible wave at the sight of it.  
  
“I love you, Krem...” Josephine finally said in a small voice. “I do. But I can’t stand by and let you do this to yourself." She doubled over as if the heartache was too much to bear. "I can’t let you do this to  _me_.”  
  
Josephine stifled a sob and dashed out of the infirmary before Krem could say anything in response.  
  
Krem could feel himself shaking--down to his very core-- and in seconds a wild, guttural scream escaped from his throat. In a fit of rage, he reached over to grab an empty wooden chair with his good arm.  
  
“HEY!” Anders cried. “What are you--?!”  
  
Krem let out a primal scream and hurled the chair across the infirmary. It crashed against the stone wall and scattered on the floor in a mess of spindles and limbs.  
  
Anders frightfully scrambled from his stool and Krem grabbed that, too, ready to hurl it against the wall next. But a familiar Qunari hand firmly grabbed his wrist from behind, stopping him in the middle of his backswing.  
  
“ _Enough_!” Bull told him, his gravelly voice filling up the room. Krem stood there-- huffing like a wild beast-- Anders’ stool still frozen in mid-throw.  
  
“That’s  _enough_ , Krem,” Bull said, his voice a bedrock of contempt.  
  
Krem gave a humorless laugh that sounded a lot more like a wheezy bark.  
  
“Here to break the other one, Chief?” he spat, and Bull dismissively shoved Krem’s arm away from him. Krem stumbled a few paces back and dropped the stool to the floor.  
  
“If you can’t even handle a dislocated shoulder without acting like—“  
  
“A Bull in a china shop?” Krem offered with a shit-kicking grin.  
  
Bull’s expression darkened. “Like a fucking idiot,” he snapped. “--then you have no place in my ranks.”  
  
Krem felt the blow of that statement like a sledgehammer to the heart. His breath left him in a rush, leaving him dizzy with disbelief.  
  
“What… What are you saying?” he said, barely getting the words out.  
  
Bull furled his hands into giant fists at his sides. “Your days as a Charger have run out,” he said. “Pack your things. You’re no longer allowed entry into Skyhold as one of my men.”  
  
The whiplash of Bull’s statement sent Krem on a sudden, sickening wave of nausea. He was too shell-shocked to say anything.  
  
Bull turned to leave without so much as a parting glance, his broad, Qunari shoulders rigidly set as he blocked out the light coming in from doorway.  
  
“Get out of Skyhold--  _tonight_ ,” Bull ordered Krem without turning to facing him. “You're dismissed.” And then he left.  
  
Krem felt his legs shaking under the weight of what had just happened. He stumbled against the wall of the infirmary and numbly slid down it.  
  
That was it. He'd done it this time.  
  
That was the last order he’d ever get from his Chief.


	28. Of Forging Alliances

Late that night, Krem’s heartbeat was pounding in his ears as he gathered up his things in the barracks. Adrenaline was still flooding his system-- causing his soldier's sense to ring loudly in his ears-- warning him that what he had in mind next would most likely get him killed.

The only light source that he had in the barracks was a small candle on his nightstand. Three tunics. An extra binder. Three pairs of pants. A belt. A couple knives. A handful of money. He’d have to leave his sewing equipment and all of his fabrics. And his maul. But at the last moment he grudgingly added a sewing needle and some thread to his pack, mostly out of wistfulness. He was almost grateful that his knapsack wouldn’t hold any more than that because only having one arm to work with made packing a lot more difficult than he’d like to admit. It took him twice as long as it should have to tie up his pack and throw it over his shoulder. He blew out the candle and pushed open the door to the barracks with his hip.

The cold night air was the only thing that greeted him when he stepped out into the lower courtyard. The deafening silence of the hold made his sudden dismissal from The Bull’s Chargers all the more pronounced. It occurred to him that he had irreparably let down the three most important people to him in one fell swoop.

Josephine.

Dorian.

The Chief.

Which only left one course of action: To travel across the Waking Sea and rescue his father from a life of slavery in Kirkwall.

* * *

Krem knew that making the trip alone was out of the question. He’d be captured or killed by enemy forces long before he saw Kirkwall. So he stole away to the back of Skyhold where Fenris and Garrett had been allowed to stay in what used to be the stables. They had apparently restructured it into a rustic little shack. Krem wondered who had volunteered to help them build it.

Garrett groggily answered the door to the shack shortly after Krem knocked on it. The Champion scratched his hairy, naked chest and waited for Krem to explain why he had woken him up so late.

“I need you to come with me to Kirkwall,” Krem said simply.

Garrett gave a big yawn and swiped a hand down his tired face. “And this couldn’t have waited until daybreak?” he grumbled, not even trying to keep the irritation from his tone.

Krem cast his eyes at the ground. “I’m no longer a member of The Bull’s Chargers,” he said, and hearing it said out loud made his stomach clutch at itself. “Or the Inquisition.”

Garrett considered him for a moment before going back inside his hut, slamming the door behind him.

 _Great_ , Krem thought. _Looks like I’m doing this alone, after all._

But after a few moments, Garrett opened the door again with Fenris at his side. The elf knowingly smirked at him, and for some reason the sight of it lifted Krem’s spirits for the first time since he had been dishonorably discharged.

“If we leave Skyhold with you tonight, you won’t just be an exile,” Fenris said. “You’ll be a traitor to the Inquisitor-- an enemy of the Inquisition.”

Krem set his jaw, his resolve galvanizing into tempered steel. “So be it,” he said, resigning himself to whatever dangerous, obscure path lay ahead of him. “Let’s go.”

* * *

“There’s someone reading this story knowing full well that it’ll end badly,” Varric said to no one as he walked with Krem, Garrett, and Fenris towards the northern gate.

“Oh, come on, Varric!” Garrett exclaimed, pulling him into a raucous side-hug. “Don’t tell me you haven’t even felt a little bit homesick for the City of Chains and Imminent Doom?”

“Not particularly,” Varric told him in a deadpan drawl. “To be honest, I’d rather take a vacation to the Deep Roads.”

“The city’s recovery is going better than you’d expect,” Fenris told him. “Kirkwall is on the upswing to becoming one of the most prosperous tourist hubs in the Free Marches.”

Varric gave a humorless laugh at that. “I’ll believe _that_ when I see it.”

Krem approached the north gate and was surprised to see that the drawbridge was down. He had already formulated a covert plan to lower the bridge and had fully anticipated on banking on it.

“I don’t understand,” he said dumbly.

“Uh, you might want to take a look at this, big guy,” Varric said, the last of his adventurous spirit deflating on the spot. “We’ve got company.”

The others turned to see the Inquisitor herself standing a stone’s throw away from them. Krem noticed straightway that she was unarmed and completely alone. Her striking, turquoise eyes cut through the darkness, and she approached them with all of the authority that she carried with her title.

“No need to take out the only witness to your little prison break,” she assured them, her expression softening as she stepped out into the moonlight. “I wanted to give you this.”

The Inquisitor held out the note from Krem’s father—the letter that he had given her as evidence in Garrett and Fenris’ trial. It was crumpled and creased, but otherwise completely intact. Krem handed off his pack to Varric and took the letter from her, nearly at a loss for words.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” he managed to tell her, pocketing it in his tunic. She gave him a humble nod and turned on her heel with a flourish.

“It’s too bad that all of this happened in the dead of night, when everyone—my spymaster, my commander, and my ambassador—were all sound asleep in their beds,” she said cheerfully.

Krem knew how to take a hint, and he felt himself break into a huge smile.

“Andraste be with you, Inquisitor,” he told her with a full heart.

The Inquisitor just looked up at the stars with a smile. “And the Dalish gods with you.”

 


	29. Of Whatever Floats Your Boat

_Two days later…_

As Krem was taking his things up to their room from the carriage, he looked out a window on the stairwell and saw the Orlesian coastline. The salty sea air had been unbelievably refreshing after spending more days than not stuck atop a snowy mountain, away from the rest of the world. The merry sound of seabirds and the crashing beat of the waves against the piers made him excited for the voyage to come.

Garrett retrieved a room key out of his pocket and led the way into their rented room. It wasn’t spacious, but it was roomy enough for the four of them to be comfortable for the night. There were two bunk beds with a fireplace, two chests of drawers, a kitchenette, and a small table with chairs to play cards. The place was spotless, and it felt homier than the barracks or the stables back at Skyhold.

Krem called dibs on the top bunk and tossed his pack onto the elevated cot.

The four men made themselves comfortable, and Varric pulled out a deck of cards from his knapsack. Garrett and Fenris cheerfully joined him at the table and they started a game of Wicked Grace. Krem climbed onto his bed and watched them like a hawk on its perch. It would have been too awkward—if not impossible-- for him to hold his cards and play the game with only one working arm.

“How’re you holding up, big guy?” Varric called to him after a couple hands. “You’re pretty quiet up there. You need a drink?”

Krem had tried to pass the time by sewing together a hole in his blanket, but he had given up after threading a needle with one hand had proven to be too difficult. He supposed he did look kind up listless up on the bed.

“I think I saw him when we left Skyhold,” Krem answered, his voice low and troubled. “The Chief—up on the ramparts,” he quickly clarified. “I bet he’s the one who tipped off The Inquisitor.” It occurred to him that Bull was no longer his chief now—he was just the Iron Bull, leader of the Bull’s Chargers. But making the name change now seemed too much like ripping bandages off of a wound that hadn’t entirely healed yet.

“I didn’t expect the Inquisitor to just let us walk out the front door like she did,” Garrett admitted as he laid down a couple of red queens.

“Perhaps your Chief had something to do with it,” Fenris offered, and played three-of-a-kind.

Krem averted his eyes with the slightest of scowls.

“It’s whatever,” he said. “The only thing that matters is that we made it to The Waking Sea. And now we don’t have to worry about the Inquisition hunting us all the way to Kirkwall… right?”

Varric took a long sip from his mug—a heady Orlesian pint of beer—and smugly laid out a straight flush, much to the bereavement of Garrett and Fenris.

“It _did_ seem like she was giving us a free pass to go deal with the situation in Kirkwall,” Varric said thoughtfully and collected his earnings from the pot. “Maybe this way she can address the issue without breaking the treaties that she signed with the viscount.”

“We’re not her responsibility if we get captured trying to deal with the slavers,” Krem realized aloud.

“And the job still gets done by people in her ranks,” Fenris attested. “Well-- _previously_ in her ranks.”

“The Inquisitor is one of the best strategists I’ve ever met,” Varric said, resetting the table and dealing out their new hands. “You still want that beer, big guy?”

Krem gave a heavy sigh and distractedly ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I think I’ll go get a drink in town,” he said. “I want to take a look around at the shops while I’m at it.”

“Bring along a knife just in case,” Garrett suggested.

“Thanks, mom,” Krem sarcastically said, but he still strapped one of his knives to his belt before he left.


	30. Of Rags to Riches

Kremenjoyed the view of the sea as he walked down the cobblestone street towards the piers. He couldn’t help but notice that the children here wore corduroy’s instead of cotton pants, and almost all of the women carried stylish parasols bordered with lace. Feeling very under-dressed in an old tunic and unwashed pants, he stood in front of the window of a clothing store and browsed its contents.

Impressed by the selection, he looked up and saw that the sign above the shop read _Beneventi’s Boutique and Clothing Emporium._ A smile spread on his face, and part of him wanted to kick himself for not realizing it sooner. Of course this was Antoine Beneventi’s work. It was too good not to be. Krem eagerly pushed open the door and went inside to take a closer look at this month’s collection.

* * *

 

It wasn’t until a shopkeeper’s assistant lit the lanterns on the walls that Krem realized he had spent the entire afternoon perusing the store. The streets had gone dark and quiet as locals and tourists alike made their way back home for supper. His own stomach growled at the thought of it, and he decided that some tavern food and a cold beer would definitely hit the spot.

“Oh, it’s beautiful! Tell Antoine that he’s outdone himself.”

Krem glanced up on a whim and saw that a strikingly-beautiful woman was trying on an elaborate, custom-made tricorne hat in front of a full-length mirror. The hat was made from dark purple leather and was embellished with a big, black-and-white feather in the back. The design was meant to indicate high-ranking military officers. And despite the copious amount of golden jewelry around her waist that spat in the face of regulations, Krem was almost certain that she was an admiral of the Rivaini Navy.

The woman caught Krem’s eye in the mirror and turned around to look at him.

In an instant, Krem’s heart lunged into his throat, and he hastily went back to shifting through the pile of clothes in front of him.

The stranger had a few more words with the assistant and then made a beeline towards Krem. While his rapidly-beating heart was trying to escape his ribcage, he tried to act like the discounted shirts in front of him were the most interesting things in the room.

“Well, well, well,” the woman purred. “What’s a soldier boy from the Tevinter Imperium doing in this part of Orlais?”

Krem was so unprepared for her approach that he straightened his posture without thinking. Dangerous, amber eyes gleamed under the rim of the woman’s newly-commissioned hat. She was so close that Krem could smell the cinnamon on her breath.

“What makes you think I’m a soldier?” he countered, ignoring her question.

The woman considered him for a moment before brazenly sliding her hand up his injured, bandaged arm. Krem steadied himself against the slight pain from it.

“I’ve had enough men under me that can recognize how a soldier carries himself,” she answered. The licentious pull of her voice suggested a double meaning to her statement.

“Well, I’m not,” he said matter-of-factly. “A soldier, I mean. I’m just visiting town to buy some clothes.”

“Looks to me like you’d do just as well without any,” she said without missing a beat.

Krem straightened with a jerk, his face getting suddenly, undeniably warm. The coquettish smile on her face reminded him of a cat back at Skyhold that would craftily steal cream from the tavern’s ice box late at night.

“So… you’re on shore leave?” he asked, side-stepping her flirtatious comments.

“You’re smarter than you look,” she quipped. “Did the big hat give it away?”

Krem cracked a smile, the unexpected joke effectively cutting his nervousness in half.

“You know... A hat _that_ big needs a cold pint of beer to go with it," he said, gradually regaining his composure. "Mind if I buy you one?”

“Oh, a line!” she said, forcing her enthusiasm just a bit. “I knew I’d get one out of you if I just kept at it. I’ll let you pay for the first round, soldier boy.”

Krem couldn’t help but feel like his luck was getting a second wind, after all.

“I don’t think I caught your name, Miss...?”

 “ _Admiral_ ,” she corrected him, playfully dropping her heavy tricorne hat on his head. “But you can just call me Isabela.”


	31. Of Song and Dance

Isabela led Krem to a decrepit, hole-in-the-wall tavern ominously called The Two-Headed Mabari, and he couldn’t help but feel more than a little intimidated as they stood outside of it.

“Are we here to get drunk or stabbed and dumped in an alleyway?” he asked her.

Isabela ignored his quip and approached the front door. A Qunari bodyguard was standing with his arms folded over his chest at the only visible entrance. Krem realized that it was the first Qunari that he’d seen since they’d arrived in town.

“Ah. Good to see you again, Admiral,” the Qunari said with all due respect. And then his gaze moved to Krem. “The kid with you?”

Krem felt his nose wrinkle with indignation.

“The kid’s with me,” Isabella attested with a smirk, and after half a moment of deliberation, the bodyguard let them through the door.

Krem was about to tell Isabella exactly what he thought of being called a kid when his voice lodged in his throat. The inside of the tavern was like nothing he had ever seen. The place was packed with every sort of person that Krem had ever encountered, and then some. A quartet band of dwarves played a song that Krem didn’t recognize near the back, and a human woman sang a jaunty song about a legendary thief called The Silver Vagabond at the forefront of them. The lanterns were magicked so that they strobed different colors off the walls. And a gigantic crystal chandelier was hanging at the center of it all.

“What’s wrong, soldier boy?” she asked him when he just stood there, slack-jawed. “Never been to a sequestered Orlesian speakeasy before?”

An Orlesian couple and a Ferelden couple were having a dance-off on a raised platform in the middle of the tavern. The Orlesian women danced like willowy trees swaying in the wind with will-o-the-whips twirling at their fingertips. The Ferelden women wore specialized shoes with metal mounted on the bottoms of them. The shoes clacked rhythmically against the wooden stage, and the crowd clapped along to the beat. The four dancers were a whirl of beauty in motion, and Krem was transfixed by it. When the music stopped all at once, all four of the women postured for their applause. The tavern broke into a cacophony of clapping and whistles as the two couples stepped off the stage.

“This place is incredible,” Krem said, genuinely impressed. “But why is it guarded?”

Isabela gave him a look and pointed out a human male having a beer with his two compatriots.

“See that man with the siren tattoo on his arm?” she asked him. “That’s Cassius Alton-- assassinated three different nobles at a gala just because they were going to raise taxes on his daughter’s favorite tea.” She then pointed to one of the Orlesians who had been dancing on the stage. “That elven woman has only ever gone by ‘Knife-Ear’ since she cut off the ears of the man who raped and killed her mother. She must have taken to the thrill of it because she became a renowned mercenary by the time she was 14.”

As Krem surveyed the room, he soon realized that many of the patrons were wanted for violent crimes that they had committed across Thedas. 

“And these lawbreakers are completely okay with letting a Navy Admiral share drinks with them?” he asked her incredulously.

Isabela gave him a wink. “They’re not the only ones with reputations, soldier boy.”

As they sat down at the bar, a slim-bodied Qunari in a leather apron came to greet them. “What’ll it be tonight, Admiral?” he asked Isabela.

“Open a tab and keep our glasses full,” she told him. “I’d like a Tongue-Twister Martini, straight-up.”

“Tevinter bourbon-- if you have it—on the rocks,” Krem said. “And Chasind Sack Mead to wash it down.”

The Qunari just nodded and went to prepare their drinks.

“So does _he_ have a story, too?” Krem asked Isabela only half-jokingly.

“That’s Kaeson, a Tal-Vashoth deserter,” she answered. “And the only story of his that you need to know is that he makes the best damn martini I’ve ever tasted.”

The music picked up again—a Dalish song that Krem had only heard once before-- and several elven dancers cheerfully stepped onto the stage. The flutes and violins from the new band began to play out a merry, folksy tune, and Kaeson soon returned with their drinks. Krem flicked him a golden Orlesian coin, and Kaeson swiped it from the air, testing it between his teeth before walking away.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re _really_ in town,” Isabela said, twirling the martini glass between her slender fingers.

Krem slowly chugged at his beer to avoid the question.

“I told you,” he finally said. “I’m just here to update my wardrobe.”

Isabela’s dark-red lips went taut. “You’re not a very good liar,” she told him. “It’s cute.”

Krem fidgeted with his glass of bourbon, not sure how much to tell her.

“You said your name is Isabela, right?” he asked. “I think I’ve heard of you.”

She laughed into her drink at that. “I’d love to hear which stories you’ve heard.”

Krem felt good holding all the cards for the first time in days, and it showed on his face.

“How about the time you lost a bet and had to sneak a bag of dragon dung into the Qunari Compound in Kirkwall?”

Isabela froze at the rim of her drink and turned to look at him with a new, cynical glint in her eyes.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” she grumbled in disbelief. “So what the hell else did Varric tell you?”


	32. Of Pressing One's Luck

“—so Varric just broke the bow staff over his knee and hit the guy with both ends of it,” Krem laughed as he and Isabela walked down the abandoned street.

“Now _that_ I would have liked to see,” Isabela chuckled, adjusting her giant hat.

“You can—You can come see him… if you want,” Krem offered, almost stumbling over his own feet. After the amount of beer he had drank while they talked at the tavern, it was amazing that he was still standing upright. His face was bright red and beaming with enjoyment in Isabela’s company. “I’m sure… I’m sure he misses you-- a lot,” he told her, bubbly with drunken laughter. “He loves… telling stories about you.”

Isabela got a wistful look in her eyes. “Of course he misses me,” she finally said in a low voice, and reservedly walked ahead.

Krem blinked, left at a loss by her sudden change of tone. He wondered if he had missed something important. “Admiral…?”

After a quiet beat, Isabela turned around and that mischievous glint had rekindled in her eyes.

“I have a big ship, you know,” she told him, sashaying towards him. “I could,” her hands enticingly skimmed over his hips, “show you _below deck_.”

Krem eyebrows shot up at that and he laughed nervously, pushing her hands away from him. “No… No, I can’t,” he said. “I’m a long way from home, but—“

A pout formed on Isabela’s dark red lips. “There’s someone else,” she finished for him. “A woman? A man?” She made a soft sound of disappointment. “Oh, well. Doesn’t matter. Just make sure to tell Varric that you’re all invited to sail to Kirkwall tomorrow on my ship. She’s called The Siren’s Call.” And in one smooth movement, she wrapped her arms around Krem’s waist and kissed him hard on the cheek.

Maybe it was just the beer, but it actually made him swoon. His mind wasn’t able to catch up with what was happening until Isabela began to walk away towards the piers.

 “Big boat. Beautiful, white sails,” she called back to him with a smirk. “Even _you_ can’t miss it.”

* * *

 

“Impossible!” Fenris spat, throwing down his cards on the table. “You’ve been cheating all night!”

Varric pulled his winnings to his side of the table with both arms and chuckled under his breath. “Now, now, Broody. Don’t be a sore loser,” he tutted. “Andraste smiles upon the--”

The three of them suddenly went on alert when they heard someone banging up the stairs to their room. And it was only when Krem stumbled through the door-- singing a choppy rendition of an Orlesian tavern song—that their hands withdrew from their weapons.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who had a good night,” Varric laughed.

“I’m just surprised that he returned in one piece,” Fenris quipped.

“I should have gone with him,” Hawke said, gruffly discarding his hand.

Krem took the last place at the table, spinning around his chair with his good arm and heavily dropping into it. “You won’t believe what I did,” he told them.

Fenris moodily rested his chin in his hand. “Judging by the lipstick stain on your cheek, it was either one or multiple women.”

Garrett hid a hearty laugh behind his half-empty mug.

“Now, hold on. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Varric asserted. “I want to hear this story from the beginning.”

Krem proceeded to give them a long-winded account of the night’s events with only a handful of interruptions. And by the end of it, Varric was uproarious with excitement.

“Well, I’ll be a nug’s uncle!” he exclaimed, slapping his knee. “So Rivaini’s an Admiral now.”

“And she said she'll take us to Kirkwall herself-- on her ship!” Krem said.

“That’ll save us a lot of money,” Hawke professed.

“And peace of mind knowing that we’re in good hands at sea,” Fenris attested.

Varric couldn't have kept the look of satisfaction off his face if he tried. “In any case,” he said. “We all need to get some shut-eye before we—“

Right as he stood up, a cascade of aces fell out of Varric’s sleeve, and he ineffectually scrambled to hide it. Garrett and Fenris were at their feet at a moment’s notice.

“You little _cheat_!” Hawke exclaimed, and dove over the small table. Varric barely dodged the Champion’s huge hands and made a hasty break for the door.

“Actually! I just realized I have somewhere to be so I’ll just catch up with you guys tomor—"

Five knives lodged themselves into the door frame in quick succession, and a sixth whizzed past Varric’s head within an inch of his ear. Without need of any other preamble, Varric ducked down the staircase as fast as his legs could carry him. Garrett and Fenis stood winded at the table with even more blades still poised between their fingers.

“Smarmy little dwarf!” Fenris shouted and threw down his knives on the table.

“Hey, you know what they say," Krem laughed as he hefted himself onto his cot. "You can take the dwarf out of the merchant’s guild...”

Garrett smirked as he yanked his knives out of the door’s paneling. "...But you can’t take the merchant’s guild out of the dwarf."


	33. Of Smooth Sailing

“Just tell me if it hurts and we’ll go up a size,” Hawke told Krem as he helped maneuver his injured arm through the coat sleeve.

The three remaining travelers had returned to Beneventi’s the next day to make a few last-minute purchases. Antoine, himself, was out of town on other business, but his assistant had been eager to help the three of them find exactly what they needed for their journey to Kirkwall.

“No, it’s fine,” Krem insisted, but still winced slightly as his arm bent back for the first time in three days. “Your healing magic has helped me out a lot since we left Skyhold. So… thanks for that.”

“No problem,” Hawke said with the shadow of a smile.

Krem glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw that Fenris was struggling with his necktie. So Krem shrugged his couture jacket into place and walked over to help him in front of the full-length mirror.

“Didn't they ever teach you how to tie a necktie in Kirkwall?” he teased Fenris, and undid the tangled mess around his collar.

“We were focused on other things,” Fenris said dryly, turning his head out of the way. “Like stopping rebel mages and abominations from destroying everything.”

Krem finessed Fenris’ necktie with quick and practiced ease until it rested flush against his chest in a perfect Windsor knot.

“I taught him how to read shortly after we left the city, but I never got around to teaching him how to tie a tie,” Garrett said as he approached them with his hands hidden in the pockets of his new dress pants. “Danarius wasn’t especially keen on educating his slaves about anything except performing acts of servitude.”

Krem was humbled by that. He forgot that Fenris had been only recently been liberated from a merciless and violent slaver.

“I’m sorry,” Krem said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to—“

Fenris just shook his head. “It’s in the past,” he said. “There’s no need to dredge it up again. But I would appreciate you teaching me different necktie knots on the way to Kirkwall if you have the time.”

Krem gave Fenris a warm smile. “Count on it,” he said.

* * *

 

Krem bought a new leather suitcase at Beneventi’s to replace his old, weathered knapsack and he finally felt ready to board the Siren’s Call. A light sea breeze played with his hair as they made their way down the main street, and the crowd only seemed to be getting denser as they got closer to the docks.

“How are we supposed to know which ship is Isabela’s?” asked Garrett.

“I think I can wager a guess,” said Fenris.

An enormous pirate ship was docked in the bay with four billowing white sails and an elegant mermaid figurehead guarding its prow. It was, by far, the largest ship in the harbor, and made the other vessels around it seem like toys in comparison. And if there was any room left for doubt, _The Siren’s Call_ was emblazoned on its hull in golden, cursive script.

Krem just shrugged and gave a goofy smile as they made a beeline towards Isabela’s ship.

* * *

 

“There you all are!”

Just as they approached The Siren’s Call, Isabela came swooping in from the ship’s deck on a loose rope, her coattails flapping in the salty breeze. She landed—practiced and graceful-- onto the docks with a dull thud, and gave a low, exaggerated bow with her hat held over her chest.

Hawke was brimming with pride at finally seeing Isabela in her full Navy garb. “Admit it,” he said. “You’ve been waiting years to do that.”

The two of them shared a hard, happy embrace and then the two withdrew to get a good look at each other.

“Hawke! It’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed. “How’s the little brother?”

“Carver’s been busy being a Senior Grey Warden these days,” he told her. “Fenris and I are doing well, by the way.”

Isabela punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Varric spent the better part of last night and two bottles of wine telling me how _you’ve_ been doing,” she said. “Now come on. We’re about to push off.”

The four of them boarded The Siren’s Call and were met with the cheers and salutations of fifty sailors on deck. Most of them were still wasted and wobbly from shore leave.

“Alright! Enough of your bilge, you sorry sea dogs!” Isabela called out to them. “Get to your posts! Lay a course for Kirkwall before I have all of your heads on a piss-covered pike!”

The sailors gave a spirited cry before they scrambled to ready the ship for their voyage.

Krem wandered to the side of the ship and looked out onto the distant horizon. “How long will it take us to get across the Waking Sea?” he asked.

“Four days,” Isabela told him while she surveyed her men. “It’d be a week with anyone other than me.”

“We can join the crew,” Fenris said. “Help navigate the ship.”

“You’d just mess it up,” Isabela told him. “No offence. Just go below deck with Varric. I’ll take it from here.” Then she smirked. “From what I hear, you have a score to settle with him.”

Krem just shrugged. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We already spent all the money he used to cheat us.”

Isabela just extended her spyglass and looked out to sea.

“Punishing a merchant guild dwarf like that,” she scoffed. “You might as well have killed his mother.”


	34. Of Putting All The Cards On The Table

Varric flicked at a crumb on the table. “You didn’t have to go and spend _all_ of it.”

Garrett was shaving his chin at a wash basin on the other side of the room. The four of them had gathered below deck on _The Siren’s Call_.

“Yes, we did,” Hawke said matter-of-factly.

“If you weren’t willing to lose the money then you shouldn’t have wagered it,” Fenris told him.

“And then tried to double-deal the Champion of Kirkwall,” Krem added. “You played a bad hand, Tethras.”

Varric just gave a wary sigh as he lamented his losses. “Okay, fine,” he relented. “I messed up and now I’m paying for it.”

Krem gave him a weak smile. “I think I know a little something about that,” he said.

Varric smiled back at him, but it barely touched his eyes.

“There’s something that I’ve been meaning to tell you all before we reach Kirkwall,” Fenris suddenly announced. “I… don’t suppose that it can wait any longer.”

Varric gave a melodramatic huff. “Oh, here we go.”

Fenris just gave him an indignant look. “It’s the person who has enslaved your father, Krem,” he said. “Although I use the term ‘person’ loosely.”

Krem was taken aback. “Who is it?”

Fenris nervously ran a hand through his white hair and turned to look away from Krem.

“The Arishok,” he said, his voice thin and hard. “The newly-appointed Arishok has your father, and a hundred other slaves-- all in chains-- under the streets of Kirkwall.”

The shock of that statement jolted through Krem like a lightning bolt out of the blue. At first, his thoughts were scattered with panic, but then his anger caught up with him.

“The _Arishok_?!” he said, entirely louder than he had intended. “The goddamn military leader of the Qunari? _That_ Arishok?!”

“Andraste’s pockmarked ass,” Varric swore, thinking back to their disastrous dealings with the previous Arishok in Kirkwall. “Not this shit again.”

“So you _have_ heard of him,” Fenris told Krem almost jokingly.

 _Only what the Chief has told me, which isn’t much,_ he thought, but didn’t say that out loud.

Instead, he said, “And it didn’t occur to you to tell me this _before_ we boarded a ship to Kirkwall?”

“Of course it _occurred_ to me,” Fenris said with more than a little sarcasm. “I just chose not to.”

Krem’s judgment snapped like a twig underfoot and he advanced on Fenris with sudden ferocity. But Garrett was there to block his way and hold him back.

“Alright, knock it off. Both of you.” Half of Hawke’s face was still smeared with shaving cream as he stood with one hand firmly on Krem’s uninjured shoulder. “We’ll figure this out in the four days it’ll take to get to Kirkwall.”

“Because if anyone knows how to take down an Arishok, it’s Hawke,” Varric said with no small amount of pride in his voice.

After a moment of tense deliberation, Krem shrugged off Garrett’s hand and went to join Varric at the table.

“You lied to me,” Krem said, his tone bitter as he fell heavily into a chair.

“I didn’t lie,” Fenris said, cautiously. “I told you your father is being held as a slave in Kirkwall and he is.”

“It was a lie of omission,” Krem shot back. “I would have never agreed to this if I had known...!” Exasperated beyond words, he just gave a sound of derision from the back of his throat and crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“It might not be all that bad,” Varric said, trying to cut the tension in the room. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—it’s pretty fucking bad. But Hawke is the one who took down the last Arishok, and he did it on his own—in a fair fight.”

“You’ll have me and Varric there as well,” Fenris reassured him. “And it won’t be a fair fight this time.”

Garrett returned to shaving his face at the basin. “With any luck, we’ll catch him by surprise,” he said. “He won’t even see us coming for him.”

Krem thought about that for a moment and then had a terrible realization.

"Those mercenaries that attacked Skyhold," he spat. "The Arishok sent them."

There was a beat of tense silence. 

"Yes," Fenris answered. "My cover must have been blown during my last reconnaissance mission in Kirkwall. I didn't realize that the Arishok had sent his people to find me until it was too late."

"And by then you were already at Skyhold," Varric surmised. "The entire Inquisition between you and them." 

Krem heard the incredulity buried deep in Varric's words. "And what better way to avoid capture than using the Inquisition itself as a decoy," he said.

"That's not how it happened," Fenris insisted. "I was only there to give you that letter. I promised your father that I would deliver it."

"And to kidnap me," Krem reminded him.

A muscle spasmed in Fenris' jaw. "And to kidnap you," he confessed.

"I told you it was a bad idea," Garrett told Fenris. "But you never listen to me."

Varric sighed and kicked his feet up on the table. "Well, we're all here now," he said. "And the Inquisition would have been involved with Kirkwall's slavery ring eventually. The Inquisitor has known about it for some time, but I don't think even she knew about the Arishok's involvement in it."

"She was waiting to get more information before sending her people to deal with it," Krem realized out loud. "And it came knocking on her door instead."

Garrett gave a heavy sigh as he wiped off his face with a towel. "I think I need a stiff drink," he said.

"Something with rum in it," Krem said with his head in his hands. "Like more rum."


	35. Of Being at the End of One's Rope

The sun had already set below the distant horizon when Krem wandered to the upper decks. After a couple rounds of Wicked Grace below deck, he had decided to clear his mind out in the open air. Almost immediately, he found a halyard that had been sloppily tied—probably the work of a drunken sailor who couldn’t be bothered to double-check his knots—and he decided to fix it himself.

Krem felt the kiss of a blade on his throat right as he finished the hitch.

“It’s not every day I meet a man who turns down the chance to undress me only to get handsy with my ship.”

It was Admiral Isabela, of course. Her raven-black hair was being thrown about on the ocean breeze; the balance of her blade unwavering at his neck despite the rocking of the boat.

“Not your ship,” Krem said. “Just the rope.”

Isabela withdrew and sheathed her sword, but a look of disapproval shadowed her features in the dim moonlight. “Every hemp rope, every plank of wood, every drunken idiot under my command is part of The Siren’s Call,” she told him. “And the way you tied that knot tells me that you can do more with your hands than you’re letting on.”

Krem averted his eyes and rubbed his hands together self-consciously.

“I had a good teacher,” he said and looked out to sea.

Isabela considered him for a moment before leaning informally against the hull. “A captain?”

Krem felt his stomach turn, and it had nothing to do with the choppy waters.

“A chief.”

The gears were working in Isabela’s mind—putting together the pieces of a puzzle that she wanted to solve.

“So you’re a mercenary who got caught up with the Inquisition?” she surmised. “Was the pay not good enough on the road?”

“It wasn’t my call,” Krem answered.

“No,” Isabella said with a smile. “You don’t seem like the person who makes the call.”

A muscle twitched in Krem’s jaw. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Isabela was on him in an instant, pinning him bodily against the side of the ship. Krem braced himself on the bulwark with both hands, caught between an armed Navy admiral and the briny deep.

“On the contrary,” she said and skimmed the planes of his chest with her fingertips. “The second-best thing you can be on this ship is someone who follows orders without question.”

Krem couldn’t resist the question that she had left hanging in the air like tempting, low-hanging fruit. “And the best thing?”

Isabela gave a mischievous smirk and leaned in close to his ear. “Someone who can tie a good knot.”

* * *

Isabela’s quarters smelled like a curious mix of citrus and cinnamon. It wasn’t altogether an unpleasant scent, and it reminded Krem of a strong tea that Dalish, The Chargers’ resident elven rogue, used to brew back at Skyhold.

There were many things that Krem had expected to find in Isabela’s private lodging. For instance, a collection of seafaring charts, compasses, and a few dozen books on sailing were all accounted for on a heavy wooden table in the center of the room. But what Krem hadn’t expected was a young man that was sprawled out stark naked on Isabela’s gigantic, luxurious bed. Still on the cusp of manhood, Isabela’s blond guest was as lithe as he was pale. Krem thought in the back of his mind that this boy—all protruding bones and untanned skin-- was in no shape to be working long hours on a ship out at sea. But perhaps that’s not what Isabela had in mind for him.

The boy slowly kicked his legs as he reclined on his stomach, his chin resting casually on his hand as he flipped through a hefty tome on historic naval battles.

“I see you helped yourself to my books while I was gone,” Isabela told him.

Krem had a horrible feeling that he was intruding on something that should have been kept private, but it was Isabela who had brought him here quite deliberately.

“I couldn’t help myself.” When Isabela's blond guest spoke, he seemed to chirp like a happy bird. “You have special edition volumes that even the naval library doesn’t—“

The boy seemed to notice Krem for the first time, and for a long moment they held each other’s uncertain gaze.

_I’m so sorry. I’ve made a huge mistake. I’ll just be leaving now._

All of these things crossed Krem’s mind, but he was too panicked and tongue-tied to plead his case.

“Will he be joining us?” the boy asked Isabela, not even trying to keep the enthusiasm from his voice.

“Only if he wants,” Isabela answered. She was rummaging through a chest of things in the corner, and in that moment, Krem would have given all his winnings from Varric to not know its full contents. “Ah, yes. Here’s my good rope.” She returned to Krem with a sturdy, cotton rope and a look in her eyes that told Krem that they wouldn’t be tying down masts with it.

“Go on,” she told Krem and dropped it into his open hand. “Tie him to the headrest.”

A cold panic crept at the back of Krem’s mind, and he fought not to show it.

“Is that an order?” he asked, his voice low and paper-thin.

Isabela turned about-face and shrugged off her Navy-issued jacket.

“A suggestion,” she replied. “Do you have any suggestions as well, Hershel?”

The young man named Hershel kicked his feet faster with excitement. “Just my arms, please,” he said. “Loose enough for two fingers to fit beneath the rope. I won’t try to slip out of it.”

Krem looked down at the rope in his hand. He’d never done anything like this with the rope-tying lessons that his chief had given him. But come to think of it, Bull probably knew more ways to tie someone to a bed than even Isabela. (Although it would, in all likelihood, be a very close call.)

The chief had taught him hundreds of multi-functional knots, but Krem never expected to be using them on someone so… _defenseless_.

Isabela’s voice from right next to him jolted Krem out of his reverie. “What are you waiting for?” she asked him. “Just tie him up and I’ll do the rest. You’re free to join in or you can watch if you’d like.”

Krem gripped hard at the rope without thinking. “He’s just a _child_.”

Isabela went stern. “Hershel is nineteen-years-old,” she said quite matter-of-factly. “I recruited him during shore leave in Orlais. His childhood days were long behind him even before I took him in.” She began to nonchalantly unbutton her white cotton undershirt. “I didn’t even take his virginity if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Nineteen-years-old. That was still almost eight years younger than Krem—practically an eternity of lessons and hardships that had built him into the man that was now standing before Isabela. The thought of playing even a small part in this didn’t set well with him.

“Don’t worry about me,” Hershel reassured Krem from the silken bedsheets. “I worked at the naval library as an assistant before Isabela brought me onto her ship. Now I get to sleep and read all day… _and_ I can have sex whenever I want it. I’m much happier here with the Admiral.”

Isabela tipped her leather tricorne hat at Hershel and tossed it onto a nearby chair. “So…” she said to Krem, obviously reaching the end of her patience. “What’ll it be, soldier boy?”

Krem set his jaw, locking eyes with Isabela before making his way to the bed. Hershel hastily scrambled to the headboard and fell onto his back, eagerly positioning his wrists against the wooden bars.

“Won’t you stay and have some fun with us?” Hershel asked him in a flirtatious whisper as Krem began his rope-work. “I’ve never had a Tevinter before.”

Krem didn’t look away from his work as he tied Hershel to the headrest. After the first knot was finished, he checked the looseness with two fingers as instructed and impersonally made his way to the other side of the bed.

Isabela was already down to her undergarments as she scrutinized Krem's handiwork.

After the second knot was secured and double-checked, Krem stood at attention and gave a tounge-in-cheek salute.

“Do I have your permission to take my leave, Admiral?”

Isabela was inscrutable as she stood at the foot of the bed.

“Fall out, then,” she ordered with the slightest smile. “And that had better be the last rope I catch you tying on my ship.”


	36. Of Living By The Sword

Krem was used to being the first one to fall asleep and the first one to wake up the next morning. He usually got up with the sun so that he could spend a few hours training alone in the courtyard. But The Siren’s Call ran on a different schedule than The Inquisition.

Civil dawn hadn’t even arrived on The Waking Sea, but the sailors under Isabela’s command were already hard at work cleaning the upper decks and adjusting the sails. There didn’t seem to be anywhere that he could go to exercise without getting in the way of Isabela’s men. 

Krem heard someone call out his name, and he turned around just in time to snatch a sword out of the air. Hawke was standing at the top of the stairs leading below deck wearing nothing but a pair of old burlap pants and a knowing smile. If Isabela’s crew had a problem with them having swords on deck, they didn’t show it.

“Ready to spar?” Hawke asked him, and Krem noticed the slight glint of a polished steel sword in Garret’s grip. “You have to be ready for the fight of your life once we get to Kirkwall.”

Krem smoothly back-stepped into the swordsmanship footwork that Bull had taught him. The rocking of the ship under him made his footing noticeably more unbalanced than usual. When Hawke circled him with his own footwork, his steps managed to be perfectly poised as if he were still on solid ground.

“What if we break something?” Krem asked. “I’ve already made Isabela mad once since we boarded. I won’t be of any use if she orders her men to throw me into the sea.”

Hawke feinted a lunge, and the sharp sound of metal hitting metal rang out on deck. The reverberation jolted up Krem’s injured arm, but he steadied himself against it.

“I’ll jump in after you,” Garrett said. “We can swim to Kirkwall together.”

Krem couldn’t help but smile at that and lunged forward. Hawke easily parried his attack, and they side-stepped in tandem.

“How romantic,” Krem said with no small amount of sarcasm. “What will Fenris think?”

Krem lunged again, this time dealing three frantic blows. Hawke effortlessly blocked them all and hastily back-stepped out of range.

Garrett let out a low laugh at the thought. “He’ll think that it’s the third-most stupid thing I’ve done since meeting him.”

Being both broader and taller than Krem, Garrett made a strong advance, and regained his footing in two unflinching steps. Krem had to withdraw in order to parry, and failed to push Garrett back into a defensive stance. Krem’s arm ached under the weight of Garrett’s block.

_Find an opening!_

The memory of Bull’s voice startled Krem into action, and he slid into a clumsy pirouette, ducking behind Hawke within a fraction of a second. Krem lightly tapped Hawke between the shoulder blades with the pommel of his sword, and Hawke stumbled around to put distance between them.

Hawke gave a surprised laugh. “0-1,” he figured, and then charged with sudden ferocity.

Krem blocked high and dodged to the right, his feet struggling to keep up with the pace of Garrett’s blows. Not realizing Hawke’s strategy until it was too late, Krem felt his back hit the hull, and Garrett’s blade found his bare throat.

“Caught with your back to the sea,” Hawke said.

 _For the second time since last night_ , Krem thought, and frustratedly knocked Hawke’s sword aside.

“1-1,” he said, and they returned to the middle of the deck to start again.

After a few more rounds, Varric brought tall glasses of lemonade, and the three of them made small talk on the upper deck as they re-hydrated.

“So who’s winning?” Varric asked, barely hiding a smirk behind his glass.

“Don’t patronize me, Tethras,” Krem muttered, his face growing warm. “Hawke could out-maneuver me in his sleep.”

“8-2,” Garrett told him. “But who’s counting.”

“You, obviously,” Krem said, but he had been keeping track of the score, too.

“Don’t feel too bad, big guy,” Varric told Krem. “He _is_ on our side, after all.”

 _Thank the Maker_ , Krem thought.

“Where did you get this lemonade, anyway?” Hawke asked Varric. “It’s pretty good.”

“Fenris found a big bag of sugar and some lemons below deck and decided to get creative with it,” Varric said. “I think he’s already getting bored of life at sea.”

“Or maybe he’s distracting himself,” Krem suggested. “From, you know, the whole Arishok-holding-a-hundred-slaves-in-Kirkwall thing.”

“Speaking of which,” Hawke said. “Ready to start up again?”

Krem handed Varric his empty glass and retrieved his sword. By then most of the sailors had abandoned their work to form a circle around the two sparring partners. It was considerably harder to find room for the necessary footwork after that, but it kept them engaged as they sparred. Once or twice, Krem got too close to the edge of the ring and a sailor would shove him back into the fray. Hawke continued to win more matches than he lost. This went on for about half-an-hour until Isabela emerged from her Captain’s Quarters.

“I’m not paying you bilge rats to lollygag on my ship like whores waiting for a poke!” Isabela shouted. She slapped a sailor hard on the back of the head, and the crowd promptly dispersed. “Goddamn blighters think they’re on a paid vacation.”

“Do you mind if we train on deck, Isabela?” Hawke asked.

“Not at all,” she replied. “But if I see one scratch on The Call, I’ll have to make an example out of you.”

The dry, irritated tone of her voice left little doubt that she was being completely serious.

“Noted,” Garrett said, and Isabela promptly returned to her quarters.

Krem quirked an eyebrow at the exchange. “You almost seem scared of her, Hawke,” he said.

Garrett gave a scoff. “Kid, if you think _I’m_ the toughest thing on this ship, you’ve got a lot to learn.”


	37. Of Tempting Fate

“Hold still.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You’re fidgeting. Pay attention.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Hawke strolled into the main galley below the decks of The Siren’s Call and gave a heavy sigh.

“You two sound like an old bickering couple,” he muttered as he bit into an apple.

Krem was trying to teach Fenris how to properly tie his necktie, but the elf didn’t seem to have the capacity to focus on the lesson.

“We’ve only been on the ship for two days,” Krem said. “You’ll worry yourself to death before we even make it to the dockyard in Kirkwall.”

“I don’t like ships,” Fenris told him, his voice thin and terse. “There’s nowhere to hide. I feel like a rat trapped in a maze.”

“How about a game of Wicked Grace to take your mind off it?” Garrett offered in a patient, gentle voice.

“I’d rather play another game once we’re alone.”

Hawke gave a low, enticed laugh from the back of his throat. “I’ll talk to Isabela about getting a private cabin for us tonight.”

That seemed to calm Fenris’ nerves, but the foggy look in his eyes suggested that he wasn’t thinking about the necktie lesson any more.

Krem was almost jealous of how domestic the two of them were sometimes. The degree of normalcy that they achieved when they carried on with each other like this was downright enviable.

“I’ll show you another knot tomorrow,” he said, undoing the silk tie at Fenris’ neck. “I need to get some air. I think I’m getting cabin fever, too.”

Krem got to his feet and left the galley with a wave. He was sure that Fenris and Hawke would appreciate having the lower deck to themselves, and he was itching to do some stretches.

* * *

 

The salty sea air tussled his hair as he stretched on the upper deck. Most of the sailors were taking a lunch break in the caboose of the ship, and the only people that he could find were in the crow’s nest and at the helm. The water was as clear and calm as polished glass. The sun was at its apex, and there wasn’t a single cloud in sight. Krem hoped that their luck with the weather would hold out for another 48 hours.

“Varric told me about your plans for Kirkwall.”

It was Isabela. She slowly advanced on him with those intrusive, cat-like eyes that made Krem seem more like a science experiment than a guest.

“Did he?” It was more of a remark than an actual question.

“He also told me about your father. And the Arishok.”

“Does he tell you everything?” Krem asked with a pang of irritation and shifted his lunge to stretch the other side of his body. He tried to ignore Isabela’s shameless gaze on him.

“Probably,” she answered. “He does enjoy his stories.”

Krem straightened his posture and rolled his neck. “Did you come over here just to tell me that?” he asked, quickly growing impatient with her small talk.

Isabela considered him with her slender fingers at her chin. “I wanted to invite you to my quarters again,” she told him. “I have a special dinner prepared for myself and Hershel. There’s enough for you as well.”

The thought of a hearty meal was tempting, but Krem wasn’t eager to be alone with Isabela and Hershel again. Their last rendezvous had been enough for a lifetime.

“I need to get in shape for our fight with the Arishok,” he said.

“There’s more than one way to get in shape.”

Krem glanced at Isabela and saw that hungry look in her eyes that made his face grow warm.

“We have roasted chicken," she continued. "Berry cobbler. Stronger drinks than lemonade and orange juice.”

Krem felt his stomach rumble at the thought and he hated himself for it.

“Are there strings attached to this meal?” he asked.

“Not a one.”

Krem groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he said. “But I’m not sharing the cobbler.”


	38. Of A Seven-Year Itch

The dinner waiting for Krem that night was more than he could have ever hoped for while out at sea. There was roasted chicken, steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes, and, of course, the berry cobbler that Isabela had promised him.

Krem had gobbled up half of the cobbler with a fierce, messy hunger when he noticed a map sticking out from under his bowl. On the map he recognized the likeness of a placemarker—lovingly detailed in dark black ink—which illustrated a fortified stronghold up in the snowy Orlesian mountainside. Without thinking, Krem ran his left thumb over the rough parchment where its name was spelled out in bold script: ' _Skyhold_ '.

“You miss it.”

Isabela spoke nonchalantly through a mouthful of chicken and proceeded to wash it down with a mug of warm beer. Krem thought for a moment before answering.

“It doesn’t matter if I miss it,” he said. “I can’t go back.”

Hershel was already on his third glass of wine, his face rosy and warm. “What’s snow like?” he asked, giddy with curiosity. “I’ve never seen it!”

Krem scowled into his half-empty bowl. “Silent and merciless,” he said. “Like the cold steel of a dagger. It can either keep you safe…” He mimed a knife across his own throat for dramatic effect. “…or cut your life short in the night.”

Isabela made a show of rolling her eyes. “It’s difficult to take you seriously with berry preserves smeared on your chin.”

“The Inquisitor thought that the snow would keep us safe; make the roads impassable for enemy forces.” Krem continued, ignoring Isabela. “But the Arishok’s people attacked us in the warm season.”

Isabela scooped another heaping helping of potatoes onto her plate and her eyes went distant. “A few years back there was a winter so cold that it made the Orlesian harbor freeze solid,” Isabela said. “I bet it was colder than a harlot’s tit up in the mountains.”

Krem remembered that year. It brought back ugly memories of whiteout conditions that lasted for weeks and soldiers hopelessly fighting hypothermia back at Skyhold.

“An attack would have been kinder to the people who didn’t make it through the blizzards,” he said. “There were a lot of soldiers who got a coughing sickness and never recovered to see the new year.” He took a swig of his beer at the thought. “They died slow, painful deaths.”

“Sorry I asked,” Hershel said in a tone of someone who wasn’t actually very sorry.

“Why don’t we talk about something happier, then,” Isabela suggested. “Like how many long nights I’m going to spend at the Blooming Rose once we drop anchor Kirkwall.”

“You’re not going to help us take care of the Arishok, then?” Krem asked her, visibly affronted.

Isabela suddenly spat out her drink and burst into a fit of loud, unbridled laughter. She slapped her knee and carried on until she didn’t have the breath to continue.

“Oh… sweetheart,” she cooed, struggling to regain her composure. “There isn’t enough gold in all of Thedas that’ll get my ass into those sewers.”

“You don’t seem the type to shy away from muck if there’s enough gold in it,” Krem said.

Isabela chugged at the rest of her beer as if she were chasing down something even more acerbic than the bitters in her drink.

“There’s worse things than rivers of shit in those sewers,” she said, her expression suddenly as dark as the grave. “And I have no intention of looking for them.”

“I… I don’t feel so good,” Hershel suddenly moaned, his complexion quickly turning green.

“Vomit on my ship and I’ll throw you overboard,” Isabela warned, and Hershel immediately scrambled out of the cabin as fast as his drunken legs would carry him.

Krem couldn’t resist a smirk as he leaned back in his chair with his beer. “The kid still can’t hold his alcohol and you bring him aboard as what—a courtesan?”

Isabela’s expression soured. “I told you our agreement,” she said, her words as harsh as a whip. “I wouldn’t have let him on my ship if he were just any street rat. Hershel is a prodigy navigator in the making, and I couldn’t let the military waste his talents on stocking shelves at the naval library.”

“Quid pro quo,” Krem muttered.

Isabela smirked back at him. “You heard Hershel,” she countered. “I’ve given him a life of luxury and a job that pays for itself.”

“Payment through acts of carnal pleasure?”

“Sometimes,” Isabela said. “And his monetary salary is twice what it was at the library. Half of it goes back to his poor mother and baby sister in Denerim. The rest is for him to spend as he sees fit.”

Still, Krem couldn’t imagine bedding someone as young and untested as Hershel. And then something that Bull had told him back at Skyhold replayed in his mind: ‘ _Because you were 18-years-old and you hadn’t grown into your emotions yet_.’ Suddenly matters of reluctance between him and Bull became clear as crystal to him. Maybe Bull _had_ been right to keep things professional between the two of them. And on top of everything else—

Krem tried to set down his mug, but his anxious thoughts caused him to place it right on the edge of the table. It went unbalanced and spilled its contents on Krem’s new jacket.

“ _Vishante kaffas_!” he swore, and jumped from his seat. He swore again, more colorfully this time, and groped at the table for a clean rag.

“Here, let me help you,” Isabela said, getting up from her chair.

Krem gave a sound of derision from the back of his throat at the thought of ruining his brand new clothes.

“I need to soak it,” he muttered, shrugging off the damp jacket. “In lukewarm water—before it dries and stains.”

Isabela was on top of him before he realized how naked he was-- his arms—his stomach—his chest. The thought of saving his Beneventi jacket-- along with inebriating effects of the alcohol-- had made him careless. Isabela’s hands skimmed over his biceps—down the front of his binder—across his abs—until she found his hips and pulled him roughly against her. Krem dropped his jacket to the floor, and before he could protest, Isabela locked his lips with hers in a hard, ravenous kiss.

Krem stumbled backwards and felt his back hit the wall hard. His hands went for Isabela’s shoulders, but by then her tongue was rolling around in his mouth. The next thing he knew, his hands were pinned to the wall on either side of him. With all other thoughts thrown to the wind, Krem reciprocated the kiss, wresting his arms from her hands, and hoisted Isabela’s waist around his own in one strong motion. He felt Isabela give a vivacious sound of pleasure against him. She held onto him around the neck as they captured and recaptured the other’s mouth in a heated frenzy. Krem could feel Isabela’s hands gripping hard at his hair, and he bit her lower lip in return. His lips found her neck and he let his tongue run slowly across her throat. Isabela threw back her head to give him room and he planted rough kisses on her neck as he carried her across the room.

The second he dropped her onto the bed, she leapt into action—one hand grabbing his neck, the other grabbing his upper arm. He felt her knee against his stomach and then she was on top of him, his back on the silk sheets of her bed. Isabela’s dark hair fell in a curtain beside his surprised face, and she smirked at him.

“I won’t be the one on their back tonight, soldier boy,” she said.

Before Krem could react, Isabela reached down for his groin. And what she found there made her give pause. The resulting look of confusion on her face made Krem’s blood run as cold as ice.

“What the bloody hell--?”

Krem scrambled backwards against the headrest of the bed, not sure how to continue.

“I… I can explain,” he stuttered, but Isabela had unzipped his pants and pulled out his packer.

“A sock,” Isabela said flatly, starting at the balled up fabric in her hand. If she was disappointed, she did well enough to hide it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Krem hastily said. “And it’s not—“

“Oh, calm down,” Isabela told him, tossing away the sock and collapsing on the bed next to him. “Do you really think that you’re the first man like yourself to go searching for his manhood in the military?”

Krem sensed a sudden, inexplicable anger that caused his back grow warm. “ _Searching for my_ \--?”

“I’ve slept with plenty of men like you,” Isabela said, her voice level and assertive. “And nothing stopped them from getting me to an orgasm faster than half of the swinging dicks on this ship.” Krem could feel Isabela’s hot breath on his face—the fat beads of her sweat that fell onto his neck. Isabela slowly leaned down, close to his ear, and whispered, “So what’s stopping _you_?”

Krem felt a rush of adrenaline flood his system, and he kicked Isabela’s legs out from under her. She fell onto the pillows of her bed and Krem kissed her deeply, enticing her tongue into his mouth. With her hands tussling and tugging at his hair to urge him on, he gave a low moan from the back of his throat.

“You taste like sweet berries,” Isabela gasped, and gave an unexpectedly airy laugh.

Krem felt himself smiling as he kissed her lips—teasing and fleeting—before starting a trail of kisses down to her chest. He roughly undid the buttons of her gown-- and then the clasp of her brassiere that held together the two fabric cups-- and watched her breasts fall free. Isabela bit her bottom lip as she caressed her bosom-- lifting and kneading her breasts— rolling her nipples between her dark, slender fingers—inviting Krem to try it himself. He pulled her hand away by the wrist and brought as much of her breast in his mouth that would fit. He sucked on the soft mound until it bounced back with an audible _pop_. Isabela laughed as if it were just a game, and tempted him with the other one. He lingered on the second breast-- his tongue tracing tight circles around her plump, erect nipple—before popping it out of his mouth.

Isabela’s hands explored the planes of hard muscle that made up his back, and went back to his hair as he planted a row of soft kisses down her stomach. He could feel the musculature of her abs under his lips—the result of many hard days both at sea and on land—and rested his forearms beside her hips so that he could comfortably find softer places to kiss.

“ _Take me_ ,” she sighed, her chest rising and falling with bated breaths. The slight whine in her voice was unbelievably encouraging.

Krem could clearly see her vulva pressing against the sheer fabric of her undergarments. He flicked his tongue on her clit and felt Isabela’s thumbs rubbing small circles behind his ears. For what it was, it was surprisingly tantalizing for him.

“ _Mmm_ , get in there, solider boy,” she moaned, and Krem closed his mouth around her clit, undulating his tongue in heavy beats of pressure until it was swollen and ready. He brushed his thumb against the slick hood of her vagina—revealing the way to the deep parts inside her—when he caught her calling him up with a hungry look and a beckoning finger. Wanting to taste her lips again—wanting to prolong the foreplay—he crawled back up to her breasts, only to be grabbed and shoved onto his back again.

“Just relax,” she told him, tossing her rippling hair back with both hands as she positioned herself on his waist. “I want you to look at me when you cum.”

Isabela pulled down her own undergarments, pulled Krem's pants down to his ankles, and and straddled him expertly. She pulled his leg flush against her body—right between her breasts—and kissed the hard muscle behind his leg. Krem cushioned his head with his hands and felt waves of pleasure as Isabela grinded against his groin.

“Oh… _fuck_ ,” he muttered, closing his eyes to relish in the sensation.

“Those eyes had better be on me when you cum,” Isabela said as she reached into the bedside drawer for a bottle of lubrication. She squeezed out a handful of clear gel and massaged Krem where their bodies met as she rocked back and forth against him. The gel intensified the warmth on his groin, and his waist automatically found the zealous rhythm that they both craved.

“That’s it,” Isabela groaned and repositioned his leg against her. “Oh, _right there_. Don’t you stop...!”

Krem reached behind her and grabbed her full ass in both hands, pulling her against his waist for added pressure. He could feel her warm wetness spreading across him and it made him give a pitchy moan. Isabela hugged his leg against her and groaned with effort as she grinded against him. She threw her head back and gave a brief, excited shout as Krem kept up the pace with low, vigorous groans.

Krem was breathing hard after several minutes of riding Isabela’s wonderfully-toned body, and he gripped at the sheets as a bright burst of ecstasy overtook him.

“Ah! _I’m gonna_ \--!” Krem heard a small, elated sound that he thought was Isabela, but then realized it was him. Isabela pushed his leg down and thrusted slow and hard against Krem’s groin. She reached up and touched his face, slipping her thumb past his lips. He ran his tongue along it and closed his lips around it before placing his hand over hers. Isabela was down on the bed, gripping hard at his leg as she frantically rubbed her clit against him. He looked into her eyes—those bright, expectant eyes—and his eyes rolled back as he reached a bursting climax.

“ _Oooooh yes_ …!” Isabela’s thrusts were slow and hard as she came along with him. Krem heard her giving impassioned, elated shouts as she carved out a tense groove of pleasure for the both of them. He felt the muscles in her groin loosen and contract against him during each intense wave of her orgasm.

Krem lost himself in dizzying flights of euphoria as he savored every tremble of her body—every little jolt of her climax. A wash of delight took over him that lingered like an incredible high as Isabela tiredly climbed onto his chest.

“See?” she said, kissing him before she laid on top of his chest. “Nothing to worry about.”


	39. Of A Brewing Storm

Krem woke up the next morning with a slender arm wrapped around him in a bed that smelled like a mix of citrus and cinnamon. The late-morning sun shone bright through a porthole in the wall, but the urge to sleep into the afternoon was almost too good to resist.

When Krem turned to give Isabela a good-morning kiss, he nearly fell out the bed when he saw that it was Hershel spooning him instead of Isabela. Krem began to slowly, carefully untangle himself from Isabela’s sleeping navigator when he heard an angry commotion out on deck.

Unable to make out any specifics of the argument, Krem stumbled out of bed and picked up his discarded jacket from the floor as he traversed the cabin. He spared one last glace at Hershel who was now sprawled out on the bed and drooling on Isabela’s pillow.

‘ _Good thing I put my pants back on before I fell asleep_ ,’ Krem thought as he tiptoed to the door.

* * *

“I’ll run you through for what you did to my sister!”

“Which would hurt more, Jovan? A sword through the heart or knowing that you slept soundly with a tavern whore while your devoted husband fought valiantly for Rivain?”

Krem pushed his way through a throng of sailors and found himself standing beside Hawke. The Champion had his arms crossed tightly over his bare chest as he watched the two workmen circle each other with cutlasses drawn.

“What’d I miss?” Krem asked him.

“A lovers’ dispute,” Garrett grunted. “The one with the goatee thought that his heartache was reason enough to have his way with the bigger guy’s sister.”

The sailors around them were egging on the fight—eager to see some blood after such an uneventful week at sea.

“We’re in international waters,” Garrett continued. “If you wanted to kill your husband for bedding some tavern wench while you were on a tour of duty, this would be the place to do it.”

Krem roughly shoved away a rowdy sailor whose elbow was prodding him in the side.

“No rage like love to hatred turned,” Krem muttered.

Hawke gave a gruff noise of amusement. “You get that out of a book?”

Krem smirked back at him. “Graffiti from the Imperium,” he answered. “Rivian isn’t the only country with scorned lovers.”

After several minutes of all talk and no sword-fighting between the two men, the sailors started to stoke the flames of their domestic squabble.

“Did she clean up the stains once you were done, Jovan?” laughed one burly sailor in the crowd.

It was enough to goad Markus into an attack. Jovan tried to parry as Markus lunged, but the blade cut deep into his side. The Siren’s Call was painted bright crimson with a spurt of Jovan’s blood. Jovan struggled to steady his footwork and poised himself to defend.

“At least the tavern wench can do more than flop around in bed like a sunbaked fish!” Jovan shouted, and the sailors roared with side-splitting excitement.

Markus lunged again, screaming as he went, and Jovan back-stepped as he parried a flurry of blows. But before Jovan’s sword could find its mark, Markus was thrown bodily against the bulwark in a flash of purple and white.

Isabela landed deftly onto the upper deck, tossing away the loose rope that she had swung in on. All at once, the crowd of sailors went as quiet as the grave. Markus, not knowing what had hit him, groaned noisily and collapsed onto his back. Jovan quickly dropped his sword and backed up with both of his hands in the air. Isabela didn’t let him get away. She grabbed the front of Jovan’s work shirt with both hands and threw him onto his back with a thud. The heel of her boot was stabbing into his throat moments after he hit the deck. Jovan’s bright-red blood from Markus’ blow began to pool onto the upper deck of The Siren’s Call.

If looks could kill, Isabela would have murdered every one of her crewmen with the fiery glare that she gave them.

“If I wanted a bunch of melodramatic bellyachers on my ship, I would have rounded up your mothers and secured them all to The Call’s masts!” she yelled. “I would’ve drank my beer to the song of their screams as we sailed to an island of monsters out in the Amaranthine Ocean. There I would bait out the stuff of nightmares from the forests with the promise of soft mother’s flesh and be glad to be done with the lot of them.”

Isabela drew her cutlass and slammed it into the deck, just a hair’s breadth away from Jovan’s ear. Her cutlass jutted out from the floorboards of the deck, leaving an ugly, broken scar in the ship. The sailors were stunned into submission.

“But instead, I hired a useless bunch of ass-fiddling cunt-stuffers!” Isabela said. “Only to find out that the best parts of your lineage ran down your mothers’ legs on the night you were conceived!”

Isabela juddered her cutlass out of the ship’s floorboards and pointed it at the crowd. Several sailors gasped and stumbled backwards. Jovan looked like he would lose his lunch at any moment.

“Now get back to work before I keelhaul every single one of you!” she yelled, and threw her weapon back into its sheath.

The group of sailors parted for Isabela in stunned silence as she returned to her private cabin. It was only when she slammed the door behind her that the sailors nervously returned to their work.

Krem felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and the Champion led them in the other direction.

“Must’ve been a pretty good night you two had,” Garrett laughed. “Seeing as you’re alive and all.”

Krem felt his throat go bone-dry. He wasn’t sure if Hawke was joking or not, and he was too horrified to ask.


	40. Of Arriving in Force

“I think it’s almost completely healed,” Krem told Garrett with true-hearted honesty. “I’ll be ready for anything once we dock in Kirkwall.”

Garrett sat behind Krem, cross-legged on the elevated cot in the lower decks. It was in the early morning hours and everyone else was fast asleep. The Champion's hands—glowing green with medicinal magic— steadily hovered over Krem’s right shoulder. The muscles and tendons had been magically reattached over the course of a week and the swelling was gone. The healing process had been accelerated by several days thanks to Garrett’s work.

“Your rotator cuff was tattered, and it wasn’t a clean tear like you’d expect from a fall,” Hawke said in a quiet voice, choosing his words carefully. “You don’t get an injury like that from blunt force trauma. Not in any fight I’ve seen… and I’ve seen a lot of them.”

Hawke’s words lingered in the air, staining the space between them like bleach. The implication was just that—an implication-- but Krem knew where this was going.

_Whoever did this didn’t want to incapacitate you—they wanted it to hurt._

When Krem didn’t answer the unspoken question, Garret finished his thought.

“You never said how it happened,” he said. “Or why you left The Inquisition and your mercenary group.”

The Champion withdrew his hands and rubbed at his stiff neck. Krem shifted his position, dangling his legs off of the cot and rolling his shoulder to test it. He didn’t look Garrett in the eye.

“When you and Fenris kidnapped me and gave me that letter, I wanted to help my father,” Krem finally said. “But so much has changed since I last saw my family. I had a new life, new responsibilities… a new _name_.” Krem nervously wrung his hands together. “And… _my Chief_ …” 

Hawke considered that for a moment, letting Krem gather his thoughts.

“I was stuck in two worlds,” Krem finally said. “And I was scared… so scared of letting him down again. He gave me the push I needed when I didn’t even realize I needed it.” Krem could feel himself getting choked up, but he took a deep, calming breath to hide it. “Once he realized that my father needed me—more than the Inquisition needed me, more than The Chargers needed me—my Chief made the decision for me.”

“You seem like a man who faces your challenges head-on,” Hawke said. “He must have known you’d head straight for Kirkwall if you didn’t have The Inquisition to pick your battles for you.”

Krem took an unsteady breath, hastily rubbing at his teary eyes.

“I need to do this,” he said, more to himself than to Hawke. “And I need to get it right.”

Garrett weighed the situation and put a reassuring hand on Krem’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he told Krem. “You will.”

* * *

The next day, their luck ran out with the weather. A steady rain had begun to fall as Kirkwall’s menacing coastline rose to greet them. Standing next to the helm at parade rest, Krem had to crane his neck to properly look at The Twins of Kirkwall. They were two gigantic statues that touched the stormy sky with a massive, rolled-up net connecting them by the ears with chains the size of houses. Out in the open water, it was as if they were created to be the sole protectors of The City of Chains, stalwartly standing to protect the coastal city-state. The Siren’s Call approached the gateway between the two effigies and passed on through without incident.

Isabela, who had her hands on the steering wheel beside him, had her steely eyes set on their path towards the harbor. If she minded the rain, she didn’t show it.

“Cremisius,” Isabela called, breaking the long, impersonal silence between them that had only been enunciated by the pitter-patter of the rain. “Go tell the others that we’ll be dropping anchor soon.”

Isabela's tone was the epitome of professionalism and was detached of any discernable emotion. Krem hadn’t expected some relationship to magically blossom between them following their one-night stand, but Isabela’s sudden emotional detachment from him didn’t seem cold or deliberate. She had the unmistakable air of someone with more important things on her mind. It gave Krem a sneaking suspicion that something waiting in Kirkwall was troubling Isabela-- putting her nerves on a razor’s edge.

“Yes, Admiral,” he answered, and turned on his heel to leave.

The Siren’s Call moored in the harbor in a matter of minutes, and the sailors quickly emerged from their quarters, noticeably excited for another shore leave so soon after their last.

Krem hastily gathered up his things below deck after alerting the others to their arrival in Kirkwall. Hawke had lent him a spare coat to temporarily replace his ruined Beneventi jacket. It fit Krem loosely around the shoulders and chest, but it occurred to him that the unmistakable Kirkwall insignia on the back would help him blend in with the crowds once they entered the city.

“Have you been here before?”

Startled to attention, Krem turned to see Fenris standing in the doorframe like a ghost.

“No,” Krem replied, returning to his case. “I’ve traveled across The Free Marches, but I never visited Kirkwall.”

Fenris considered that as Krem swung the suitcase over his shoulder and joined him at the door.

“Anything I should know about this place before we dock?” Krem asked, raising a black hood over his head to protect him from the rain.

Fenris didn’t bother covering his head, and Krem watched as his expression went stern.

“Don’t trust anyone.”

Krem chuckled at that as they went to join Hawke and Varric. “You’d think I’d have learned that lesson by now,” he said reflectively. “How about I let you be my wine-taster in case there are any other dangerous elves who want to drug and kidnap me.”

Fenris smirked at that. “You don’t have to worry about anyone drugging you in Kirkwall,” he said.

Krem couldn’t hide his sudden look of surprise. “You’re saying I was more at risk for being kidnapped in Skyhold than in the infamous City of Chains?”

“I didn’t say that,” Fenris said. “Slavers here are bold enough to attack their targets in the streets.”

Krem set his jaw. He should have guessed.

“Just stay close to the group,” Fenris advised. “Hawke and Varric will do most of the talking once we’re inside Kirkwall.”

The Siren’s Call collided with the pier and jolted Krem into a side-step to keep his balance. He never seemed to have found his sea legs during their four-day journey at sea.

“Krem! Fenris!” Hawke called to them from the brow. “Time to disembark!”

As the two of them approached the brow, a huge crowd of people could be seen bustling at the gate leading into the city. Krem suddenly felt a fire kindling inside him at the sight of it. It primed him for what was to come like a small flame to a wick attached to a barrel of gaatlok.

Varric clapped him hard on the lower back, his face a mask of equal parts excitement and apprehension.

“Welcome to Kirkwall, big guy,” he said sarcastically. “You’re gonna love it here.”


	41. Of Pottle-Deep Potations

The Kirkwall travel post was congested by a bottleneck of immigrants and other visitors waiting to pass through the main gate. Being processed was a torrid and menial affair that lasted the better part of the afternoon. The heavy leathers of Krem’s borrowed coat were clinging to his skin, and rainwater was dripping down his neck and back where the fit was too large by several inches. It was a miserable way to spend their first day in Kirkwall, and Krem prayed to whatever gods that would listen that it wasn’t a sign of more unfortunate things to come.

Once they reached the Kirkwall travel officials—protected from the pouring rain by stone alcoves-- Krem heard a young elven woman call out for his travel papers. His stomach turned to lead as it occurred to him that his papers were still back in Skyhold with The Iron Bull.

This whole trip had been for nothing.

Varric, Hawke, and Fenris had already been processed and went through unaccosted, but Krem was left alone… at a piercing loss of what to do. 

“Papers?” The elf repeated, holding out her hand expectantly. And when Krem didn’t answer she said, “Serah, if you don’t have your travel documents, then you won’t be granted access to Kirkwall. Please stand aside for the next person in line.”

“His name is Cremisius Aclassi and he’s one of my men.”

The familiar voice jolted Krem to alertness, and when he looked up he had never been happier to see Isabela’s severe expression under that purple tricorn hat.

The elven woman assessed the situation, her eyes bright with indecision.

“Admiral Isabela,” she finally said with noticeable surprise. “My deepest apologies, but if this man has no travel papers--”

“I told you, Nelissa,” Isabela said, her patience as thin as a pane of glass. “He’s under the umbrella contract of the Rivaini Navy. I have over fifty craftsmen, crewmen, laborers, and other recruits patiently waiting for the opportunity to protect Kirkwall from the Qunari threat. So either you allow Serah Aclassi to join me and the other Rivaini sailors in Kirkwall or I send a particularly nasty letter to General Santiago about how you impeded his most illustrious crew in the middle of what will perhaps be one of the most important operations of his career.”

That seemed to put the fear of The Maker into Nelissa because she jotted down a few notes and stamped it with mechanical efficiency.

“Welcome to Kirkwall, Serah Aclassi,” she finally told him. “Do enjoy your stay.”

But before Krem could say anything, he felt Isabela strong-arming him through the city gate. As they walked, something that Isabela had said strongly resonated with him.

_He’s one of my men._

“You lied for me,” Krem said, hardly believing it.

Isabela took a deep, calming breath through her nose. Krem knew from personal experience that falsifying military documents could get her in some serious hot water if they weren’t careful about it.

“Don’t make me regret it,” she said next to his ear, and shoved him hard into Hightown’s open market.

Stumbling awkwardly into the marketplace, Krem immediately caught sight of Varric, Hawke, and Fenris, all waiting for him with their arms nervously crossed over their chests. Krem called out to them and they all reconvened in the middle of the square.

“Took you long enough,” Fenris remarked.

“We thought that they’d found something on your records and refused to let you in,” Hawke said.

Krem was about to thank Isabela for covering for him, but she was long gone.

“I’ll explain later,” Krem told them. “Let’s just get out of the rain.”

“Good idea,” said Hawke. “How about somewhere with good drinks?”

Varric gave a low laugh at that. “I think I know just the place.”

* * *

 

“Has anyone told you… that those tattoos are fucking _spectacular_?”

Fenris crinkled his nose. “Not in those words.”

“Because holy _shit_ , man,” Krem went on, completely plastered within the second hour of drinking. “I mean—they’re—they’re _lyrium_ , right? Like--” He was interrupted by his own drunken laugher before he continued. “Do they _glow_ when you fuck? Or just when you _get_ fucked?”

Fenris rolled his eyes at Krem’s advances. “That’s the second time alcohol has loosened your tongue and you’ve questioned me about my sex life.”

Hawke nearly choked on his beer. “There was a _first_  time?!”

Varric was just barely holding back his laugher at the unfolding events as they all sat together at a table in The Hanged Man. “Looks like someone has an unspoken crush on your husband, Hawke.”

“I wouldn’t call it a _crush_ ,” Krem said with a flirtatious grin. “But yeah. He could get it.”

“I’m spoken for,” Fenris said. “And entirely uninterested.”

Krem dramatically fell back in his seat, grasping at his heart like a thespian during a death scene. “Oh…! I’m wounded! Someone call a healer!” Then he lost himself to uproarious laughter.

“You _will_ be if you keep it up,” Fenris told him, breaking into an unintentional, flattered smile.

“Thoughts, Hawke?” Varric asked. “You’re being awfully quiet.”

Garrett blinked, his face giving nothing but bewilderment away. “Too many to mention.”

“Serah, I have your order.”

A burly man with muscles to spare got in close with Varric, not making eye contact with the dwarf.

“Ah, yes. Just a moment.” Varric went into his coin purse and handed a few coins to the stranger who handed him a bird-skin pouch, tightly fastened with yellow twine at the mouth of it.

“Fancy doing business with you again, Serah,” said the burly human, and then he slunk back into the shadowy posterior of the tavern.

“An old contact?” Hawke asked. “After all these years… No, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Varric retrieved a pipe out of his pocket and put a pinch of the bag’s contents into the bowl of it. “It’s cheaper in Orlais, but you can’t beat the quality here,” he said, lighting up the herb with a wax candle on the table.

“Couldn’t we have just picked up some elfroot off the side of the road?” Fenris grumbled.

“Who said it was elfroot,” Varric retorted and took a long drag from his pipe.

“You think his tall tales are crazy when he’s drunk?” Krem asked. “You should hear the stories he comes up with when he’s crossfaded.”

“Give me an hour and I’ll tell you a story that’ll give your nightmares nightmares,” Varric attested. He promptly exhaled a cloud of eggplant-colored smoke from his nose that glittered like a starry sky once it caught the candlelight.

Garrett coughed on the smoke and tried his best to fan it away from him. Krem caught a whiff of it and the familiarity of it made him more than a bit apprehensive.

“I fought a dragon that smelled a lot like that a while back,” Krem said. “The Chief inhaled too much of it and thought I was a demon-- almost crushed me against the rock wall of a cave.” He took another sip of his beer to chase off the unkind memory. “Thank the Maker that the Inquisitor and Cassandra were there with us because it took both of them to calm him down.”

“It’s magnhild herb,” Varric said. “Dragons love the stuff almost as much as dwarves. But you can only find it in places with tropical climates.”

“Highly expensive; highly potent; highly illegal,” added Fenris. “Hallucinations from it often come straight from your scariest and darkest fears.”

“And you’re smoking it _on purpose_?” Krem said, aghast.

“I’m working on a new horror novel,” shrugged Varric. “I have to get my ideas from somewhere.”

“But... it had the opposite effect on me with the dragon,” Krem recalled. “I saw beautiful women with huge plates of food. I thought I had died and met Andraste herself before the Chief knocked me unconscious. I’ve never had better dreams in my life.”

“It’s a gamble,” Fenris explained. “Fifty-fifty chance of heavenly visions or hellish nightmares.”

“If you start throwing punches, Varric,” Hawke stated, “I’m locking you in a broom cupboard.”

“Don’t worry yourself, Hawke,” Varric assured him. “I’ve never had a trip that I couldn't handle, even with magnhild.”

“I’m serious about the broom cupboard,” Hawke insisted, and downed the dregs in his mug. “Don’t think I won’t.”


	42. Of Cork-High and Bottle-Deep

_In his dreams, Krem was the man that would have made his parents proud._

_Strong voice. Hard edges. Golden proportions._

_Even when he was young, his dream-self was always an otherworldly reflection of what should have been the perfect son of Olivier Aclassi. And tonight was no different._

_Krem was lounging in a garden back in the Tevinter Imperium with Josephine’s naked body against him. They shared a bowl of grapes in the mid-day sun, reveling in each other's company._

_“We can finally start our lives together,” said Josephine, resting her head on Krem’s bare chest. “Just the two of us.”_

_Krem felt a refreshing breeze run across his skin; felt the sun warming him from head to toe. It was absolute bliss._

_“Forever and always,” he told her, kissing the top of her head._

**_CRASH!_ **

Krem shot up in bed, and for a moment he was too disoriented to discern dream from reality.

**_CRASH!_ **

The commotion was loud enough to shake the portraits on the walls, and it dawned on him all at once that he was in the guest bedroom of Hawke’s estate and not back in the noble magocracy.

Krem pushed the palms of his hands into his tired, bloodshot eyes.

“God- _fucking_ -dammit.”

**_CRASH!_ **

_“Alright!”_ Krem shouted at the darkness. “Hold your fucking horses.”

Throwing the covers and sheets off of himself with more gusto than necessary, he quietly swore to himself that he’d throttle whoever had disrupted his quixotic, drug-induced fantasy.

Krem dragged his feet across the carpet as he made his way towards the door, blinking his drowsiness away as best as he could. No light shone through the window of his borrowed room, against the sheer fabric of the closed curtains. It was still the dead of night.

“Who is it?” he called out as he reached the door. “Varric, is that you?”

Krem knew that Varric had gone to bed a few hours ago, rambling about how he’d write an epic story about all of them after this was all said and done. Needless to say, he had lucked out and gotten the good side-effects of the magnhild herb. And the crashing coming from the adjacent room didn’t sound like someone who was having a pleasant high.

Krem slowly opened his door, cautiously peeking out into the hall. The foyer was completely vacant.

**_CRASH!_ **

“What the hell…” Krem muttered, and boldly stepped into the main vestibule.

There was a bright light coming from the dining room, and a wicker basket rolled out of the open door that led to it. Whatever had woken him was still in there.

After half a moment of hesitation, Krem took a deep breath and made a beeline towards the floodlit room.

“I don’t know who the fuck is getting the loudest midnight snack in the history of Thedas, but—“

Krem’s vision exploded in a white burst of pain as he was tackled against a nearby wall. His attacker had pinned him so violently that he had been hitched over a foot in the air, his legs dangling uselessly below him. He tried to scream, but a cordon of hard muscle was crushing his windpipe. He fought past the stars flashing behind his eyelids and took a look at his assailant.

“ _Ha—Hawke_?!”

Garrett’s face-- twisted into a visage of absolute madness-- filled his line of sight. Krem sputtered as the brawny forearm against his throat pushed even harder, making the edges of Krem’s vision turn bright red. The capillaries in Krem’s eyes had been broken. And in the part of his mind that wasn’t still in shock, Krem realized that he had maybe ten more seconds to fight back before he lost consciousness. He desperately kicked towards Hawke’s stomach, grappled at the arm against his neck, tried his best to wriggle free of the chokehold, but it was a wasted effort. The Champion of Kirkwall was a goliath of strength, and Krem could already sense his own vivacity beginning to fail him.

As things started to go dark, Krem felt a strange sense of calm overtake him. He could have sworn that he heard the voice of Andraste calling out to him. And then everything went black.

* * *

“Cremisius! _Krem_! Open your eyes!”

This was it. He’d finally run out of second chances. Andraste would soon be leading him towards the Maker’s judgement and into the next life.

“ _Though darkness closes,”_ Krem forced out the words. _“I am shielded by flame_.”

**_SMACK!_ **

Krem short-windedly swore as his jaw lit up with pain.

“That’s more like it,” Fenris said as he held the fellow Tevinter runaway in his arms. “You won’t be getting your last rites today, Cremisius Aclassi.”

The first thing that happened upon regaining his consciousness was that Krem could detect the familiar stench of the wine that had been used to drug him several days ago, and it alerted a base part of his brain that was in charge of keeping him alive.

It manifested itself as his chief's gravelly, onerous voice. 

_Now would be a good time to fucking breathe!_

Krem's cognizance shot back into focus in an instant, and he instinctively grabbed onto the person holding him. He gasped for each panicked breath, clutching at Fenris’ silk nightshirt as if his life depended on it.

"You still have a job to do, remember?" Fenris told him. "Andraste will just have to fucking wait."

Krem scrambled to a sitting position, distancing himself from Fenris with his back against the wall. He struggled to get his oxygen-deprived mind back up to speed.

“What… What the _fuck_ happened?” he demanded, his voice still ragged and hoarse.

Fenris turned his attention to the wake of destruction beside them, and Krem slowly followed his rueful gaze. Hawke was lying unconscious in what Krem was afraid was an inhumanly large pool of blood. But then he realized that it was just blood-red wine-- Aggregio Pavali, to be exact.

“ _Hawke_ …” Krem choked out the word in bitter disbelief. “He… He tried to _kill_ me.”

Fenris shook his head, not wanting to look at Hawke’s incapacitated body any longer than necessary.

“Not intentionally,” he said. “It was the magnhild herb. He must have gotten too much secondhand smoke in his system.”

Krem felt a hot anger rising up in him. “Are you _sure_ about that?”

Fenris shot a heated glare back at him, and without missing a beat he said, “If we wanted to kill you, do you think I would have skulled my husband with a wine bottle while he was finishing the job?”

Krem went shamefaced at that. “No,” he admitted. “I’m sorry... I didn’t—“

“Just help me get him to our room,” Fenris snapped. “We can deal with apologies in the morning.”


	43. Of Quid Pro Quo

Bull stood in front of his washroom mirror, carefully plucking rocky shrapnel out of a laceration that dug in deep below his clavicle. His tough, Qunari skin had protected the muscle from any damage, but falling hard into the dirt had complicated things. Armed with a pair of surgical pliers no larger than his fingernail, Bull removed every minuscule shard of rock that he could find lodged in the wound. It was tedious, frustrating work.

“Where’s Dorian?”

Bull started, not expecting her so soon. He huffed-- sounding not unlike a caged, cornered beast-- and gripped hard at the sides of the washbasin.

“Not here,” he answered.

In seconds, Bull felt the Inquisitor’s hand sliding across his chest, and he straightened his posture to face her. The Inquisitor’s long, scarlet hair that was usually tied up against the back of her head fell loosely at her shoulders tonight. Bull slowly ran his fingers through the dark-red curls despite himself, his worried thoughts somewhere else entirely.

“It’ll need stitches,” she casually said, dabbing a cloth with antiseptic. “Do you have a clean needle and some thread?”

Bull opened the cabinet over his washbasin and retrieved a small, black velvet pouch. There was a four-letter name in white, cursive script embroidered over the front of it.

_Krem_

The Inquisitor gave him an inquiring look, and Bull shied away from it.

“Just a spare sewing kit,” he said in a small voice. “He left a lot of his stuff.”

Tiny elven fingers made threading the needle an easy task, and after sterilizing the wound, the Inquisitor began stitching it closed. Through the entire process, Bull didn’t flinch.

“You’re in mourning,” she said simply.

Bull perceived a tenor of genuine compassion in her voice, and he felt the fortifications around his heart crumbling at the sound of it.

“This isn’t the first time that I’ve had to mourn a soldier, boss,” he said, his left eye focused somewhere off in the middle distance. “I won’t let it affect my work.”

The Inquisitor bit at the twine against Bull’s chest, and he was distinctly aware of her lips-- softer even than the velvet of Krem’s bag-- brushing against his skin for just a fraction of moment. When she withdrew, she glanced up at Bull-- at his heartbroken face-- and stood up on her toes, pressing her lips against the sewn place over his heart where she had mended it.

“You know that’s not why I’m here,” she said, an undertone of yearning winding into her voice. “I’m not here as The Inquisitor. I’m here as a friend.” Her hand touched the side of Bull’s face and he steeled himself against the tenderness of it. “Even… _more_ than a friend,” she admitted. “Just for tonight.”

Bull felt himself shaking his head, not sure _what_ he wanted any more. “It won’t change anything,” he said. “Won’t bring him back.”

The Inquisitor remembered herself at that, slowly removing herself from the unreciprocated gesture. “I know,” she said. “And I understand that it’s a raw pain-- that it’ll take time to heal. But you did the right thing, Bull.”

Bull’s strategic mind knew it to be true. The Inquisition had their fingers in pies all across Thedas, and the Inquisitor had been meaning to intervene in the slavery ring in Kirkwall for months. But even Leliana hadn’t been able to acquire the information necessary to prepare a full-scale mission. Now, after an attack on Skyhold—with an unsanctioned four-man team dealing with the matter on the Inquisition’s behalf-- the Inquisitor stood to gain a lot from any good that came out of it.

If any good _did_ come out of it.

“Krem doesn’t think like a Ben-Hassrath spy,” Bull professed. “He doesn’t wait for textbook opportunities like you or me. He’ll take the path of heaviest resistance every time, and every time he gets knocked down, he’ll keep doing it-- again and again and again-- until...”

Bull’s voice trailed, but the Inquisitor seemed to catch on to the logic of it.

“Hitting them hard and fast,” she said. “It’s usually the best approach to a situation with zero reconnaissance.” Then she gave a gentle laugh against the back of her hand. “Does _all_ of your foreplay sound like a tactical meeting or am I just an exceptional case?”

Bull gave an unexpected smile, remembering why he had set up this one-night stand in the first place. “You _are_ exceptional, boss.”

And without any further preamble, Bull lifted the Inquisitor into his arms and carried her towards his Qunari-sized bed. They kissed each other with spontaneous chemistry as if they had shared moments like this for years.

“And Dorian’s okay with this?” The Inquisitor asked as Bull lowered her onto the bed.

Bull gave a weary grunt as the mood evaporated at the mention of his absent partner’s name.

“We have an understanding,” he answered.

The Inquisitor quirked an eyebrow and sprawled seductively on Bull’s enormous pillows.

“Do you mind giving me the details of it?”

Bull began to unfasten his belt, thinking all the while that he really shouldn’t be surprised that someone called "The Inquisitor" would turn out to be so goddamn inquisitive.

“We struck a deal,” he admitted, not seeing any harm in telling her. “I get one night with you, and Dorian gets one night with Krem if he ever comes back.”

The Inquisitor couldn’t help but smile at that. “Dorian must believe wholeheartedly in Krem’s unconventional brand of spunk,” she said as she watched Bull disrobe. “Most people would think it an unfair trade-off.”

Bull gave a hollow laugh at that. “Dorian isn’t ‘most people’.”

Finally able to remove his pinstriped parachute pants, he dropped heavily onto his back next to the Inquisitor. She rested her chin in the palm of her hand with a smile, taking in the sight of Bull’s naked body beside her.

“Your people are something else, you know that?” she asked him. “Believe it or not, you were the very first Qunari I ever met once I left my clan.”

“Well, if you’ve met one of us, you’ve basically met all of us,” he said sarcastically. “Nice smallclothes, by the way,” he said, smoothly bringing her against him with one huge hand. “Pink-- very pretty.”

They kissed again, slow and patient and convivial. Then the Inquisitor retreated further down the bed to sate her fervent curiosity. But once she was situated between Bull’s colossal thighs, she was taken aback by what she found there.

“Um, Bull…?” she called out to him, not exactly sure of what to ask about first. “I hate to break this to you, but I only have two hands.”

Bull let out a booming, boisterous laugh at that.

“Don’t worry, boss,” he told her, putting hands behind his head. “We’ve got all night.”


	44. Of Canticles and Benedictions

The next morning was a doozy. Between drinking heavily all night, breathing in fumes from Varric’s pipe, and Hawke being beamed on the back of the head with a wine bottle, there were splitting headaches all around their four-person crew. There wasn’t much talking at the breakfast table for two solid hours.

Fenris was the least affected-- having only had a couple drinks and effectively side-stepping the hallucinogenic effects of the magnhild herb—and was reading Kirkwall’s daily paper in reserved silence. Hawke was resting his aching head on the dining room table, periodically groaning at the birds that were making a joyful racket right outside the window. Varric was staring off into space, still riding the tail end of his magnhild high. And Krem was moodily sipping at a teacup full of earthy elven tea to soothe his battered throat.

“Someone find the decency to shoo away those blighted bluebirds before I start throwing fireballs at them,” Hawke moaned, his forehead firmly planted on the table.

“No need to frighten the neighbors,” Fenris sighed while folding up his paper, and got up from his chair to take care of the problem.

“You know,” Varric abstractedly said. “If you squint, the bruises on your neck kind of look like little galaxies. Think of all the planets that were born last night... in this very room…”

Krem scowled over the rim of his teacup. “Not the fucking time, Tethras.”

Hawke finally decided to join the conversation, slowly lifting his head off of the table. “I… want to say that I’m sorry,” he said, wincing at the light coming in through the window. “To Krem-- for last night.”

Krem shifted uneasily in his chair. “It’s alright,” he said, averting his eyes. “You were drugged. I know you didn’t _mean_ to almost choke me to death.”

Hawke grimaced as he poured himself a hot cup of tea. “No, it’s not just that,” he said. “There’s something else that I need to confess.”

“Oh, good,” Krem said sarcastically and sipped at his tea. “I was _hoping_ that this morning would get even more awkward.”

Hawke dropped two cubes of sugar into his cup before continuing. “When I attacked you last night,” he said, ignoring Krem’s cynicism. “It wasn’t you that I thought I was attacking.” He gave a belabored sigh. “It was your chief—the Qunari that attacked Fenris.”

Krem remembered the unmitigated hatred that exuded from Hawke last night and got a chill down his back despite the warm cup in his hands. “No wonder you hit so hard.”

“A brave man is not the one that feels no fear, but the one that succeeds because of it.”

The table went quiet and everyone turned to look at Varric, who had apparently tapped into a fountain of wisdom from the dregs in the bottom of his tea cup.

“Hawke is afraid of the chief?” Krem asked, incredulous.

“Afraid of losing me,” Fenris corrected him. “Isn’t that right, Garrett?”

Hawke gripped hard at the porcelain handle of his tea cup. “He could have killed you if he wanted,” he said, an equal mix of anger and sadness. “Could’ve killed the both of us.”

Krem was surprised when he saw Fenris’ guard crack right down the middle at that. The hard lines in the elf's usually-dour expression softened into something much more compassionate.

“Garrett…” Fenris breathed, kneeling down and touching the side of the Champion’s face. “We’re a team. We’re _partners_. And I promise I won’t let anything take you away from me.”

Hawke turned his eyes away from Fenris, but tenderly held Fenris’ hand with his own. At the sight of it, Krem felt something akin to jealousy clawing in his gut—of what, he wasn’t sure-- and fought to hide it.

“I’m gonna go take a walk,” Krem announced, and abruptly got up from his seat.

Hawke and Fenris both looked at him as if they had both snapped out of a dizzying daydream. Varric was still silently mystified by the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.

“Krem…” Hawke hesitantly said. “You shouldn’t—“

“I’ll be _fine_!”

Krem’s sudden outburst made everyone in attendance jump. Even Varric seemed to sober up a bit, and looked up at Krem with unexpected concern.

Krem bit the inside of his cheek, chastising himself for losing his temper over something so stupid.

“I’ll be fine,” he tried again at a more affable register. “I just… need a minute.”

And without waiting for a response, Krem grabbed his borrowed coat from the coat rack and threw it over his shoulders. Then he walked out into the bustling streets of Kirkwall.

* * *

 

There were two places that Krem often went to soothe his troubled mind: the tavern and the Chantry. The tavern was a place where he could laugh and drink away his worries with friends, but visiting the small chapel in Skyhold had been a much more somber affair. He would try to give up tithes and offerings to the Maker after every other mission, but he’d been attending less and less in the past year.

So it was with a heavy heart that Krem made the pilgrimage to Kirkwall’s destroyed Chantry.

As he climbed the steps, he could see that reconstruction was well underway. Dozens of workers were held up high on suspended platforms as they laid brick and mortar around the skeleton of the new Chantry. The sounds of its reassembly were a constant presence in Hightown.

Krem finally reached the top of the steps that led to the gate which separated the public from the dangers of the construction site, and a Chantry Sister approached him with a welcoming smile.

“Blessings of Andraste be upon you,” she told him. “My name is Sister Denisse.”

“May the Maker’s Light shine on all of us,” Krem said with humble piety. “My name is Cremisius Aclassi. I wanted to make an offering, but…”

“We have collection plates in temporary tents designated for prayer,” the Sister explained. “I can also offer spiritual guidance if you seek it.”

“Thank you, Sister Denisse,” he told her. “I won’t take much of your time.”

As Sister Denisse led him towards an extravagant red tent, Krem couldn’t help but notice that this provisional Chantry seemed much more like a refugee camp than a true chapel. Children playacted Templars and Mages with each other in the sun-- just outside of the tents where their parents prayed with the Sisters-- as if this were no longer holy ground. After all, the roof of the Chantry was no longer above their heads. And no more were the cold eyes of the Chantry’s effigies constantly upon them. Some semblance of sanctity had undoubtedly been lost in the aftermath of the attack, and it still had yet to be reclaimed in the wake of the death of the Divine.

 _‘Anders really caused all of this…?’_ Krem wondered with a sinking spirit. ‘ _No wonder Varric took it so hard.’_

“Right this way, Serah,” Sister Denisse told him and raised the flap of the tent for him to enter.

The inside of the tent looked more spacious than it did from the outside, but not by much. Krem, himself, stood a head taller than the sculpture of Andraste at the far end of the makeshift chamber. He was so embarrassed by it that he hastily fell to one knee.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” he recited. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker's will is written.”

Krem slowly, deferentially returned to his feet, and he purposefully avoided meeting the stone gaze of the Andrastian statuette.

“The Benedictions will serve you well as long as you tread within the Maker’s blessed Light,” Sister Denisse told him.

But something still wasn’t setting well with Krem. _Peacekeepers. The lights in the shadow._ His hands tightened into fists at his sides without him even realizing it.

“Sister Denisse,” he called without looking over at her. “What do you think about the Inquisition’s efforts to restore peace in Thedas?”

Sister Denisse didn’t answer him at first, and it was only when he turned to look at her that he saw the troubled look on her face.

“I believe that the Maker sent the Inquisitor to save us in our hour of need,” she finally answered. “I never thought highly of the Dalish or the elves before she proved what noble hearts can rest within them.”

Krem thought about that. “You believe that it’s noble?” he asked. “Closing the rifts? Fighting the demons?” He hesitated just a moment before continuing. “Killing the slavers?”

Sister Denisse’s hallowed gaze lingered on him just long enough to give him goosepimples. And the Maker’s fire was in her eyes when she answered him.

“I believe that it is just.”


	45. Of A Loose Canon in Soft Shoes

As the morning shifted into the afternoon, Krem returned to the open-air markets of Hightown to do some shopping. The meager funds that he had brought along with him on their journey had dwindled considerably between bouts of gambling and drinking, but Krem figured that he still had enough money left to at least buy a new pair of shoes. He casually shouldered through the bustling crowd and found his way to a stall that seemingly fit the bill. Krem could tell even from a fair distance away that the cobbler in charge of the stall was in good enough practice for what he had in mind.

A dwarf with a full beard the color of parchment ink greeted his patrons with a broad salesman’s smile, and Krem aptly noticed the fine tools tucked away in the man’s leather apron. The little collection of awls and needles were made of pure dragon bone—perfect for punching holes through thick leather. And even with Krem’s scanty knowledge of leatherworking, he knew that high-quality tools like that didn’t come cheap.

“Good day, Serah!” the dwarven merchant called out to him, shaking Krem from his thoughts. “Can I help you find anything in particular?”

For the first time, Krem noticed a deep, jagged scar shooting down the side of the merchant’s face, marring his full, dark beard where it hadn’t been able to grow back. It was quite the injury for a simple cobbler.

“Just looking for some shoes,” Krem answered, trying to hide his clawing curiosity. But the cobbler broke into a knowing grin—full of dazzling, white teeth—and inclined his chin to give Krem a better look.

“Nasty scar, huh?” the merchant crooned. “Bet you can’t guess how I got it.”

Krem knowingly smirked back. “Dragon claw,” he said with no room for doubt. “Were the stitching tools worth it?”

After half a beat of surprise, the merchant broke out into jubilant laughter.

“Damn straight they were worth it!” he boasted. “You know how much gold my local butcher has squeezed out of me over the years by pawning off scrapped leg bones?”

“Too much?” Krem offered.

“ _Much_ too much!” he countered, boisterously thumping his display table to drive the point home. “And never again will he get a single, ruddy coin out of me!”

Krem slowly scoured the stall for a moment before deciding on a pair of shoes on the top shelf.

“How much for these?” he asked, grabbing the halla skin shoes to inspect them.

“Halla leather?” mused the merchant with a hint of distaste. “If you don’t mind my saying, serah, you don’t exactly seem the type. Now, I have plenty of _bearskin_ shoes…”

Krem just shook his head at the offer, testing the soft, spongy material in his hands. The Kirkwall insignia was emblazoned in bright pink on the top of each of them.

 _I always_ did _like pink_ , he thought with a smile.

* * *

 

The shoes were a perfect fit, considering everything. They weren’t couture, but they’d certainly get the job done. Krem knew that deerskin was soft enough to muffle even the heaviest of footsteps, and halla skin was the cream of the crop. The leather’s high tensile strength made it extraordinarily abrasion resistant-- its durability was second to none. And on top of everything, it was stretchy and lightweight. But even as he wiggled his toes in the cozy wool lining of his new shoes, deeper thoughts began to swim back to him.

_He’s one of my men._

That’s what Isabela had said when she had lied on his behalf. It inspired ideas in Krem of finding her again once this slavery ring business was all behind him. Maybe she’d even make him her first mate.

_It’s only been a week and you’re already looking for my replacement._

Bull’s voice—familiar enough to imagine the words just as he’d say them—brought Krem’s aberrations back down to earth.

“I’m not replacing you,” Krem said to no one. “How could I?”

 _Don’t leave me, Chief!_ Bull’s imaginary voice pantomimed Krem’s with comical gusto. _I can’t even piss in a pot without giving away our position!_

And then it went back to Bull’s normal register; deadpan and dismissive.  _Leave it to Cremisius Aclassi to go weak at the knees for “Tall, Dark, and Horny”._

“Tall, dark, and horny,” Krem laughed under his breath. “And where does that leave you, Chief?”

“The Arishok isn’t paying you to get drunk and fuck tavern girls in alleyways.”

Krem straightened, his soldier’s sense coming back to him in an instant-- as if waking up from a dream. He noticed for the first time that it had already gotten dark, and he was still several blocks away from The Hanged Man, let alone Hawke’s estate. Krem flattened himself against the nearest wall—hidden in shadow—and listened for the unfamiliar voice that he knew for certain he hadn’t just imagined.

“Shut up,” said another, deeper voice from around the corner. “We already had our cover blown once. If it happens again…”

Apparently he didn’t have to finish his thought because a reverent silence followed.

“Whatever, man,” said a third, accented voice. “He’s set up more safeguards since then. And I’m the only one in our group with a key to his headquarters.”

 _New safeguards,_ Krem thought. _I have to get that key or we might not get a second chance at this._

And then he brazenly pushed off from the wall, walking into clear view. Five pairs of eyes turned to look at him—all human—all condemnatory.

Then Krem turned on his heel and began walking in the other direction, not bothering to quicken his pace. Ten loud footsteps trailed after him. He reached an alleyway in a matter of seconds and disappeared down it. His pursuers were close behind him. And in moments, Krem was face-to-face with a stone wall-- solid, sturdy, and 30-feet-tall. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, his muscles itching for a fight. He silently waited for his trackers to initiate a confrontation.

“Hope you don’t expect us to just let you walk away,” said their leader. “Get on your knees and beg, and we’ll promise to only break an arm instead of your fragile Tevinter skull.”

The empty promise was met with fraternal laughter and high-fives, but the thought of ruining his arm for a third time in several weeks cemented Krem’s resolve to kick their fucking asses.

“Not today, _motherfuckers_.”

Krem had just enough time to get a dagger from under his coat before he was grabbed from all sides. He instinctively slammed his head back and heard the satisfying crunch of cartilage. A goon tried to wrench the dagger from his hand, but Krem muscled out of an inexpert hold and drove it deep into his throat. A hard punch landed on the side of Krem’s chin, but it was only solid enough to daze him for a moment. He finessed out of the grip on his left arm and rounded on him with a dagger-hardened punch to the jaw. More than half of his attackers were on the ground. A metallic rod crashed into his spine, sending an explosion of pain up his back, and Krem staggered forward a couple steps to regain his footing. His attacker raised the weapon high to deal a decisive blow to the head, but Krem was faster. He ducked and weaved-- closing the distance between them—and plunged his dagger in the man’s stomach. The last assailant charged at him, and Krem shifted his stance-- grabbing the man’s arm with both hands—and led him head-first into the wall. Krem heard a painful groan from under him, and he slammed his foot down on their merc leader’s head. Then the alleyway went completely quiet.

“ _Amateurs_ ,” Krem muttered, and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground.

And then, glancing up, he noticed a covert figure at the entrance of the alley. Still familiar through the darkness of shadow, Krem saw Varric—his crossbow loaded and waiting against his shoulder as he leaned against the stone wall.

“If I were a betting man, I would have put twenty gold against you,” Varric sarcastically said, breaking the earsplitting silence. “Good thing you already spent all my money.”

Krem was nearly at a loss for words, but his anger found his voice for him.

“You were following me,” he growled as Varric haughtily approached him.

“Don’t flatter yourself, big guy,” Varric said, unarming his crossbow with practiced fluidity. “You’re not the only one who can track down loudmouth mercenaries in a quagmire like Lowtown.”

“You didn’t think I could do it on my own,” Krem groused, yanking his dagger out of a dead man’s stomach.

“Andraste’s puckered asshole,” Varric swore, rolling his eyes. “Save the grouchy Tevinter diatribe for someone else, would you? I get that enough from Broody as it is.”

Krem leaned down and patted down the leader of the mercenary group. He found the key quickly enough—a blocky, iron thing that doubtlessly opened a very heavy, very gargantuan door. Krem tucked it away in his pocket and stood, blazing a path for the main street, but Varric caught him by the arm.

“We’re not done here,” Varric said in a demanding tone that Krem had never heard from him. “I know that this has all been a big change of pace for you, but you need to get on the same page as the rest of us before we go after the Arishok.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Krem said defensively, fighting the urge to shrug Varric’s hand off of him.

“ _It means_ that there’s a middle ground between second-in-command and going solo, Krem.”

There was a beat of heavy silence that followed. It disturbed the space between them like oil in water. Krem hadn’t heard Varric use his real name since they first met over two years ago.

Krem gave a shaky, calming breath, and Varric let go of him.

“I’m sorry,” Krem said. “I’m just… not used to this sort of thing.”

Varric awkwardly rubbed at the back of his neck and gave a deep, compromising sigh.

“I get it,” he said. “But it doesn’t always have to be ‘my effort for the greater cause’, or whatever it is that gets your dander up every morning. You don’t have to be _part of something_ _bigger_ to do some good. It isn’t always The Inquisition sealing demon-filled rifts in the sky. It isn’t always The Bull’s Chargers charging in to get the job done. Sometimes it’s just a handful of ordinary people trying to save a few lives and making a thankless, crime-infested town a little less shitty.” Varric’s expression went sentimental for a moment before he continued. “And trust me when I tell you that a small, ragtag team can go a long way under the right circumstances.”

Krem knew that Varric was speaking from first-hand experience, and it made him feel a lot better about what they would be facing in the coming days. He took a deep, reassuring breath and managed a smile.

“Thanks, Varric,” he said with genuine gratitude. “Now can we get back to Hawke’s place before all this blood ruins my new shoes?”


	46. Of Formulating a Plan

Hawke’s estate smelled like delicious, hearty stew and hot, herbal tea when Krem and Varric walked through the door. The dining room was already set for dinner, and Krem realized with a sudden, gnawing hunger pang that he hadn’t eaten anything all day.

When he and Varric walked into the kitchen, they saw Hawke and Fenris in their evening clothes, standing together in front of the stove. Fenris was stirring a huge pot of stew with Hawke holding Fenris close to him by the waist. His forehead was resting on the elf’s shoulder in a loving, tender embrace. Hawke hastily looked up at Krem and Varric once he heard them enter the room, but his hands didn’t leave Fenris’ hips. Fenris didn’t even turn around to greet them, only continued to stir the giant, aromatic pot of stew.

“Are we interrupting anything, Hawke?” Varric said with a good-natured smirk. “We can wait in the common room if we caught you two in the middle of—“

“No, please stay,” Hawke hastily said, a deep blush discernable on his cheeks even from across the room. “You’re not,” he insisted with one hand still lingering on Fenris’s waist. “We weren’t.”

“It’s already been done,” Fenris said in a level voice. “Twice.”

Hawke went even redder at that, and he coughed once out of nervousness.

Krem tried to smother a smile, but seeing Hawke tongue-tied and embarrassed like this was a first.

“We have something to show you, Hawke,” Krem said, throwing him a conversational bone.

That seemed to capture the Champion’s attention, and Hawke promptly joined them at the dining room table. Krem dragged the loot out of the pocket of his borrowed coat and handed it off to him.

“A key?” Hawke asked, curiously turning it over in his hand.

“Off of one of the Arishok’s cutthroats,” Varric attested. “Krem took down ten of them all by himself.”

Krem gave him a look, but didn’t go so far as to correct him. “It belongs to one of the doors leading to the Arishok’s headquarters,” he said. “One of the mercs said so.”

Hawke beamed at that. “Good job, Krem,” he said. “Now we have an advantage.”

Krem was bolstered by the compliment, but he hid it with a shrug. “They’ll probably just change the lock to whatever door it opens once the Arishok realizes that a team of his underlings went missing.”

“Then we need to act on it.”

Everyone turned to look at Fenris, who was bringing over the huge pot of stew to the table.

“We’ll plan tomorrow and then infiltrate the Arishok’s headquarters once night falls,” Fenris continued when no one said anything. He thoughtfully sat the pot of stew onto a coaster in the middle of the table. “We need to strike while the iron is still hot.”

“Broody may have a point,” Varric conceded and lunged for the ladle, but Krem was faster and had a farther reach.

“I say we go for it,” Krem said, eagerly pouring vegetables and broth into his bowl. “My dad’s waited long enough for someone to come and kick down some doors.”

“And now we have a key to at least one of those doors,” Hawke mused and poured himself a cup of tea.

“I just wish that I still had my maul,” Krem said, lamenting his favorite weapon that he left back at Skyhold. “I would feel a lot better equipped to fight the Arishok if I did.”

“You tore through those mercs tonight with just a dagger,” Varric reminded him as Krem handed off the ladle and he served himself a bowl of stew. “I know stealth missions aren’t exactly your style, big guy, but it’ll be best if we stick with cloaks and daggers.”

“And the occasional sword,” Hawke interposed. “You aren’t bad with one-handed weapons,” Hawke told Krem. “I have a short sword in storage that would suit you. You can bring it with us.”

“Thanks, Hawke,” Krem said, feeing even more grateful for Hawke’s partnership with every passing moment. “Can’t wait to use it.”

“So this is it, then?” Varric sighed. “The four of us against the Arishok.”

That statement seemed to bring everyone back to reality. They had known deep down-- for days on end-- that this was a suicide mission in the making, and now that it was finally upon them…

“We’ll get the job done,” Hawke said decisively. “And we’ll take down the monster that’s enslaved your father, Krem.” Then he raised his pink-rose-gilded teacup. “To justice.”

A spark of excitement shone in Varric’s dark eyes, and he raised his teacup to meet Hawke’s. “To camaraderie.”

They turned to Fenris, who looked back at them with an inscrutable look. Then he sighed and raised his teacup. “To freedom.”

Krem, with a bright fire burning inside him, stood from his chair and raised his cup. “To victory.”


	47. Of Going the Extra Mile

The next day, after several arduous hours of strategizing in the common room, Krem and Hawke decided to spar one last time in the estate’s cavernous basement. The short sword that Hawke had dug out of storage was balanced in Krem’s hand as he experimentally sliced at the air in front of him—horizontally—vertically—diagonally—with both the weight and the length of the iron sword suiting his bearing. Hawke considered him with an approving eye from across the room.

“Keep on the balls of your feet, Krem,” Hawke told him. “Remember, you’re holding a short sword, not a two-handed weapon.”

Krem automatically shifted his stance, repositioning his knee to give himself a better posture for sword-wielding. In no respect was he particularly light-footed—never the first choice for stealth missions back at Skyhold-- and his new, wool-lined shoes only helped him out to a certain extent. But he had received a handful of lessons from Bull over the years that went beyond just simple blocking and striking. After all, bad footwork would get you killed in a swordfight just as quickly as a poorly-crafted weapon.

Hawke seemed to be wracking his brain for something with a hand at his bearded chin. “I may have something that’ll help you feel the part,” he finally said.

Hawke disappeared into a nearby closet, and when he emerged he had a set of leather armor designed for human swordfighters. Krem returned his new sword to its rack and took the thick, dark leathers into his hands. The clothes were jet-black and expertly crafted with sterling silver buttons trailing up the break of it. And on top of it sat a small wooden box with fine, red velvet embellishment across the sides of it.

“I got this top-of-the-line sewing kit as a present from the viscount about a year ago,” Hawke said. “I never used it, and I don’t think I ever will, so I want you to have it.”

Krem took the expensive gifts and was suddenly, terribly humbled.

“I’m indebted to you,” he told Hawke in a somber voice. “For the clothes… for the sword… for the—“

“Just make good use of them and we’ll be even,” Hawke said with a genuine smile. “They’ve been collecting dust for a long time and deserve to see some action.” Then he gestured behind him. “Changing room’s that way.”

Krem nodded once and disappeared into the private, curtained room. Once he pulled the leathers over his underclothes, he found that they were a surprisingly comfortable fit. He curiously opened the wooden box and found an extensive collection of sewing tools inside it. Sterling silver needles and a small pair of golden scissors rested on a bed of velvet at the bottom of the box. It also came with a few tiny spindles of high-quality thread. Krem smiled to himself, not realizing how much he missed having a full sewing kit in his possession, and closed the heavy lid. He’d have to repay Hawke somehow.

Straightening his sleeves as he exited the changing room, he was surprised when it wasn’t Hawke that was waiting for him in the arena.

It was Fenris.    

“What’s going on?” Krem asked, hesitating at the sword rack.

Fenris calmly swung his own short blade in wide, sweeping motions, not taking his eyes off of Krem.

“You need to learn how to take down the Arishok, correct?” he said, standing ready in his training leathers. “So here I am to teach you.”

Krem blinked and slowly retrieved his sword, stepping towards the middle of the room. Hawke watched the two of them intently from against the wall, not saying anything.

“And what do you know about fighting an Arishok?” Krem said with a low, dry laugh. “Frankly, I think I’d learn a lot more from sparring again with Hawke.”

Fenris lifted his chin and gave Krem a disparaging look. “Garrett has fought dragons and giants on plenty of occasions, but seldom has he had to fight exceptionally-intelligent enemies that were more than twice his size. And top of that, he’s a mage who prefers long-range attacks and diversionary tactics.”

Krem and Fenris met in the center of the fighting area with their swords drawn. They rounded each other with cool, predacious steps and sized each other up in preparation for their match.

“True, Garrett is especially talented with a one-handed sword,” Fenris continued, tightening his grip on the hilt of his weapon. “But he isn’t a true warrior, like myself—or yourself—or the Arishok.” Fenris just shook his head. “No, _I_ am your purveyor of this lesson, Cremisius.”

And then it started.

Fenris lunged with sudden ferocity, shifting the blade to his side with practiced ease and aiming straight for Krem’s chest. Krem only had a fraction of a second to prepare, clumsily knocking it aside with the edge of his sword and stumbling backwards with a shout.

Fenris readjusted his stance—solid and steady—and Krem bit back his own growing distress.

“I wasn’t ready!” Krem barked, his back growing warm out of embarrassment.

“The Arishok won’t wait for you to find your footing,” Fenris shouted and made another strong advance. Krem’s mind whirled as he barely parried Fenris’ attacks, losing ground with each swing. “And neither will I!”

Fenris went for a high strike to Krem’s left shoulder, and in a bold move, Krem hastily shifted his stance. He grabbed Fenris’ sword arm by the wrist with his free hand, and they stiffly stood there at a stalemate.

“Your stance is too loose,” Fenris grunted after a few tense moments and promptly broke through his block, throwing Krem off balance with a kick to the stomach. Then, while Krem was doubled over, Fenris slammed down the pommel of his sword against Krem’s left shoulder.

Krem gave a brief, painful shout as a crushing pain blossomed at the base of his neck, and he quickly back-stepped to the edge of the arena to collect himself. His shoulder would be thoroughly bruised, but Fenris had just barely pulled the punch to avoid breaking bones.

Krem couldn't help but take notice of Fenris' cold, calculating eyes. His overly-confident stride. His harsh, condescending tone.

It felt like sparring with his chief all over again.

“ _Keffas_ ,” Krem angrily swore in the old tongue, and Fenris slowly advanced on him like a predator upon its injured prey.

“Your strength isn’t worth a damn thing if it can be used so easily against you,” Fenris spat. “Either steady yourself or keep on your toes. You’ll be killed if you try to do both at once.”

Krem huffed, and lowered his stance. Fenris may have been smart and fast, but in terms of physicality, he was no Qunari—just a lanky, strong-armed elf. “Fuck dancing around, then.”

Charging forward with his sword positioned at his side, Krem swiped recklessly at Fenris once he got within swinging distance. Fenris blocked the swing without losing any ground, exploiting an opening in Krem’s guard to make his own move. Unable to reset his guard, Krem jumped back just in time for the blade sing past his chest. The swing had just missed its mark by a finger’s width.

“That was too close,” Krem gasped to himself without thinking.

“If I were him, you’d be dead,” Fenris responded.

Krem knew that Fenris had meant the Arishok, but Bull was the only thing on his mind.

It infuriated him.

With two strong steps, Krem advanced on Fenris, giving a wild war cry from deep inside his chest as he brought his sword down towards Fenris’ uncovered head. The elf’s eyes went bright with surprise at Krem’s sudden spell of savage energy, and when he blocked it barely held. Krem gave another barbaric shout and swung his sword in strong, wide motions with reckless abandon. Fenris lost the ground that he’d made, back-stepping again and again to deflect Krem’s unpredictable blows. And without realizing just how much distance he’d lost, Fenris’ heel hit the bulky rope that encircled the arena, and he fell backwards, his sword clanging to the ground next to him.

In an instant, the sharpened tip of Krem’s sword was a hair’s breadth from Fenris’ tattooed throat.

Both men breathed heavily, still caught up in the raw energy of the fight. Neither made a decisive move against the other, but Hawke had traversed the room to intervene in the match—stopping just within arm’s reach of Krem.

“You’re not him,” Krem snarled at Fenris, not even sure if he meant the Arishok or his chief. “Not even close.”

“ _Krem_.”

Garrett’s firm, cautionary voice from behind him shocked Krem out of his anger.

“Krem, you won,” Hawke apprehensively said. “It’s over.”

After taking an uneven, collective breath, Krem lowered his weapon and reached a supportive hand out to Fenris. After an unsure moment, Fenris took the offered hand, and Krem pulled the elf to his feet.

“Good job,” Krem told him with genuine honesty. “You were really amazing.”

Fenris gave him a dangerous smirk. “The Arishok’s going to have his hands full with us,” he said.


	48. Of Gain and Loss

Krem hadn’t given “the sewer” part of their plan much thought until the smell of it overpowered his olfactory senses later that night. The open grate in Lowtown produced a noxious cocktail of human excrement, decaying animal flesh, and other unmentionable forms of waste that flowed en masse under their feet. The bile in his stomach threatened to rise up into his throat, but he pulled up his chin to fill his lungs with clean air and willed it back down.

“You gonna be sick, big guy?” Varric teased him.

The dwarf was dressed to the nines in his best stealth gear with Bianca loaded and strapped to his back.

Krem scoffed. “As if,” he muttered, and boldly made his way down the ladder that led into the sewers.

After the rest of their party made it down onto the elevated stone walkway that bordered the river of sewage, they walked together into the heart of the subterranean cavern.

“If this is where they’re holed up, then where are all the guards?” Krem asked the others, his voice reverberating against the tunnel walls. “The Arishok wouldn’t leave a clear path to his headquarters completely unguarded.”

“You call this clear?” Hawke asked, covering his nose with his arm to filter out the dirty air. “I just don’t think he expected anyone to come in this way.”

Krem saw the logic in it, but something still didn’t seem quite right.

“It’s too easy,” Fenris agreed with Krem. “Keep your guard up, everyone.”

Hawke turned his nose at that—or perhaps it was just a waft of something particularly foul in the contaminated river—and they all pressed forward.

* * *

 

After several minutes of silently navigating the labyrinthine sewer system, Varric glanced around a corner and signaled for them to hang back. Krem went into a crouch on his new shoes, along with Hawke and Fenris, and they waited for a briefing on the situation, which soon afterwards came in the form of two raised fingers from Varric.

_Two adversaries._

Then Varric held up a fist and covered it with his other hand.

_Heavily armored._

Then Varric crossed his middle and index fingers.

_Armed with short swords._

Then he turned to Krem and pointed at him, then pointed to himself. Krem wordlessly nodded, retrieving a dagger from his coat. Varric gently, soundlessly lifted Bianca from his back and took a deep, quiet breath. Then he lunged into view with Krem immediately following suit. There was a loud report of Varric’s crossbow firing, and one of the mercs slumped to the ground with a bolt jutting from his neck. Krem leaned back and pitched his dagger at full force. It squarely hit its mark, digging past the space in the other merc’s helmet that exposed his eyes. It sunk halfway into the merc’s head with a sickening thud, and he slumped to the stone floor. They waited a moment for reinforcements, but none came. Varric and Krem relaxed their posture, and Hawke and Fenris joined them out in the open.

They could all see now that the armed goons had been guarding a giant, reinforced steel door.

“That’s it?” Fenris said, unimpressed. “Two measly soldiers?”

“Are you complaining?” Varric snidely retorted.

“Only if it turns out to be a trap,” Fenris snapped back.

Krem reached into the pocket of his coat and dragged out the key that he had lifted off the merc from the previous night.

“Only one way to find out,” he said, and his three teammates made their way down the walkway towards the mysterious door.

When Krem didn’t follow them, Varric glanced over his shoulder at him.

“What’s wrong?” he called out with a crooked smile. “Afraid you’ll get your shoes dirty?”

Krem’s nose crinkled with indignation.

"Shut up,” he groaned as he purposely sidestepped a brown, smelly puddle on his way to the door.

* * *

The stolen key had fit the lock of the door, and the mysterious room now lay open and vacant for the small, covert band of trespassers. The room in question seemed to have been utilized as large, shared office for the Arishok’s subordinates. There were tables stacked high with papers, shelves filled to bursting with neatly organized dockets, maps and charts that hung on the walls to keep track of all sorts of communal information… and no one to guard any of it.

“Holy shit,” Varric muttered in disbelief. “Is this what I think it is?”

Hawke inspected a thick piece of parchment that had been hammered into the stone wall.

“A timetable,” he surmised. “Names of the Arishok’s workers; times of arrival and departure.”

Krem lifted a heavy booklet from a nearby table and began flipping through its contents. Immediately, Krem’s heart began to race. It was a roster of slaves that the Arishok had hidden away in Kirkwall. Thumbing the first tab with a capital ‘A’ on it— pulling all the way back to the very beginning of the roster-- he ran a finger down the leftmost column.

And halfway down the page, Krem found his own name.

“Aclassi,” he breathlessly said. “Olivier Aclassi.” Krem turned to the others, reeling and lightheaded with relief. “He’s _here_.”

Fenris gave him a supportive nod. “Then we’ll free him along with the rest of the slaves.”

Varric took up a hefty scroll and skimmed through it, his expression darkening as he slowly realized what it was he was reading.

“It’s a list of patrons,” he said grimly. “This tells which slaves and how much money are switching hands between the Arishok and his constituents.” And then he came to an unsettling realization. “Half of these names have footnotes connecting them to the Templars or the Circle of Magi… and the viscount is listed as one of the Arishok’s top donors.”

At that, Hawke rushed to the dwarf’s side to double-check the information for himself.

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered. “This is bigger than just the Arishok. We need to inform the Inquisition of this once we—“

Then the loud echo of a heavy door handle being jostled jolted the team from their thoughts.

“ _Hide_ ,” Hawke hissed, and everyone scrambled for a hiding place.

Krem had just enough time to duck under a desk before he heard the steel door being thrown open. It crashed against the stone wall and a barrage of armored footfalls echoed into the room.

“We know you’re in here,” said a loud, confident voice. “The Arishok has been expecting you.”

Krem felt himself shaking, and he clasped a hand over his mouth to keep from making any noise.

It had been an elaborate trap just waiting for them to fall into it since the beginning.

The key had been nothing but bait.

The Arishok had known that the incompetent mercenaries would be sitting ducks for whoever had been collecting reconnaissance on him.

The four of them had trapped themselves in the heart of the Arishok’s base of operations.

And now they were all going to be either captured or killed.

Krem nervously groped for a dagger under his coat. He found that it was still slick with blood from being lodged into the skull of the man who had been guarding the room. Gripping it tight in both hands, he listened for the locations of the attackers who had entered the room. He risked glancing around the corner of the desk, and saw that emblazoned on the back of one of the men’s thick, armored chest plate was the Kirkwall insignia.

One of the viscount’s men.

Krem bit back a curse and ducked back into cover.

Hawke was right. The systemic corruption at play here was far bigger than any of them could have anticipated, and it looked like there was little to no hope of them actually getting word of it back to anyone that could do anything about it.

Krem heard a scuffle and a scream that could only belong to Fenris. And without hesitation, Krem rolled out of cover and stood with his dagger at the ready.

Everything fell into chaos.

The room was crowded to capacity with heavily armored enemies, and two gargantuan Qunari hitched Krem up by the arms before he could even react. Their massive hands were like a vices digging into him, and he dropped his dagger with a painful shout.

Unable to do anything but take in his surroundings, he watched as Hawke and Varric unleashed a bombardment of bolts and magic onto the crowd of enemy combatants. Fenris had been seemingly knocked unconscious, hanging limp in the clutches of two armored soldiers.

A guard got in behind Hawke and fastidiously sliced his calf with a short sword-- cutting clean through both his mage's robes and the muscle hidden under it-- and the Champion went down hard with an agonized scream.

Soon after that, Varric was soundly overtaken by guards and shoved ferociously to the ground.

“ _No_!” Krem yelled, thrashing helplessly in the unyielding grip of his captors.

Without warning, a huge, Qunari hand grabbed the back of his head and shoved it down hard towards the desk.

Krem’s forehead full-bore the collision, and then everything went black.


	49. Of Time Gone By

_8 years ago…_

“Fuckin’ hot out here,” Krem groaned and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

“It’s _Seheron_ ,” Bull drawled back at him. “If you wanted a nice, temperate place to lay low, you should have ran in the other direction.”

Krem gave a low, flustered laugh. And when it wasn’t at a low enough register for his liking, he quietly tried it again.

“I never was good at reading maps.”

Bull just snorted and pushed a low-hanging vine out from in front of his horns as he struck a path through the dense jungle underbrush. The two had barely known each other a week, and Bull was already wondering if he had made the right call in bringing the kid along with him.

The gangly human was all bones poking out at awkward angles under smooth, untested skin. Bull had come across plenty of humans—friend and foe-- and knew that they came in much bigger sizes even when they _were_ that young. Plus there was that naive, boyish confidence with barely enough sense to allude his trackers, let alone fight them.

And a _‘vint_ on top of it all.

Bull gave another frustrated grunt, and in his distracted thoughts he nearly tripped over a downed tree limb. He growled under his breath and kicked the limb forcefully off the path. The bloody bandage that now covered Bull’s gouged out eye socket made surveying his surroundings all the more difficult. It would take a lot of time getting used to it—time he wasn’t sure that they had on their side.

“Can we take a break?” Krem called out after a few minutes of heavy silence punctuated by the sounds of Bull forging their path. “I’m having some trouble breathing.”

Bull made a contemptuous noise, but his horns were so thickly tangled with jungle debris that it was becoming an unavoidable nuisance. He glanced around with his one uncovered eye and spotted a cave tucked away in the undergrowth.

“Lucky you,” Bull said. “We’ll set up camp over there.”

* * *

 

Regardless of his façade of reluctance, Bull took a relieved sigh when the cool air of the cave hit his face. The temperature dropped considerably even with the first couple steps into the stony cavern, and Krem impatiently retreated further into the dark recesses of the cave to undress.

“You know the drill,” he told Bull. “No peeking.”

Bull just rolled his eye and turned to keep watch outside the cave.

“Are all Tevinter men so coy about removing their shirts?” Bull said loud enough for his voice to carry, and Krem hesitated just for a moment as he pulled the tunic over his head.

“No, they aren’t,” he answered matter-of-factly, but didn’t offer any further explanation.

Krem glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Bull was still minding his privacy, and saw that the Qunari was too busy yanking matted leaves from between his horns and cursing to himself in Qunlat to pay him any mind. Krem promptly tossed his tunic aside and began to slowly unravel the white cloth that he used to bind his chest. He took a deep breath as the sweat-soaked cloth fell to the floor, filling his lungs with cool, fresh air for the first time in eight hours. And after taking a few moments to stretch his torso, he pulled his tunic back over him, hastening to rejoin Bull near the front of the cave.

“Let me help you with that,” Krem said, unhooking a thick vine that had been skewered on the Qunari’s right horn. As he did so, Krem couldn’t help but stare openly at the bloody wrappings around Bull’s scored eye socket.

‘ _Looks like I’m not the only one that needs to replace their bandages_ ,’ he thought.

Krem distractedly reached for the soiled wrappings around Bull’s head, but the Qunari grabbed him hard and fast by the wrist mid-reach. He winced as Bull glared at him with that one, dark eye.

“I’ve _got_ it,” Bull said simply—with no room for argument-- and shoved Krem’s arm away from him.

Krem swallowed nervously, not realizing how thirsty he was until that moment. They had drank from a waterfall not long ago, but the Seheron heat had turned his throat bone-dry in just a couple hours.

“I can help…” Krem muttered despondently, his voice hoarse.

“You’ve done enough,” Bull answered, his tone full of harsh, unhidden resentment, and used his nails to rip the bandage free from his face in a single, violent tug.

Krem winced again, taking in the ugly sight of Bull’s closed, mangled eye socket before backing out of reach. He didn’t want to think about what it must look like with it open.

‘ _That could have me_ ,’ Krem thought, and then he realized something that made his stomach hurt. ‘ _No,_ _that_ should have _been me._ ’

Krem looked at the floor, guilt all over his face, as Bull went into his knapsack for fresh bandages.

“I’ll go find water, then,” Krem offered, and felt something roll against his foot right after he said it. It was a waterskin made from a gurn’s bladder and lined on the outside with soft, white halla fur. Krem would know—he had crafted it.

Krem took the oblong thing without question and journeyed deeper into the cave to find a source of drinkable water.

* * *

 

It didn’t take Krem long to stumble across a pristine pool that was big enough to submerge himself in, and he wasted no time in splashing his face with it. He gave a loud, gratifying sigh as the crisp, cold water ran down his tunic.

“ _Fasta vass_ …” he moaned, and wasted no time in dunking his whole head into the water.

After reemerging and shaking his head dry, he cupped his hands, drinking handful after handful of fresh water before he finally had his fill.

Krem stood at the brim of the small lake and looked down at the tempting ripples in the water. With a childlike smirk, he took a few steps back and ran forward, plunging into the pool with a joyful shout.

Losing himself to jubilant, airy laughter, Krem did laps in the water until his arms hurt, and then he turned onto his back to float on its surface.

Then a rough, familiar voice distracted him from his fun.

“I didn’t think I had to specify to _bring back_ the water.”

Startled off his balance, Krem flipped upright and saw Bull leaning inconspicuously against the cave wall. Krem felt his face grow hot out of embarrassment despite the coldness of the water.

“How long have you been watching me?” he demanded.

Bull just pushed off the wall and approached him with a slow, confident stride.

“Long enough to know that you have a shitty swimming teacher,” he retorted.

Krem spat out a laugh that he wasn’t expecting, and Bull’s expression seemed to soften at the sight of it.

“What?” Bull said, his anger completely forgotten.

“Was that a joke?” Krem asked him, still bubbly with laughter. He swam to the edge of the pool and rested his chin on his arms. “I didn’t know that Qunari _had_ jokes.”

At that, Bull actually blushed, and quickly turned his head to hide it.

“Of course we do,” he muttered, scrambling for composure, and Krem pulled himself out of the water in one dynamic motion.

Bull snapped his full attention back to Krem without realizing it, and lost himself in the sight of him.

Krem’s wet hair plastered to his head, his drenched tunic and pants clinging at his wiry body.

“You should have let me tie those bandages,” Krem said, inspecting the haphazard drapery of cloth around the Qunari’s face and head. “You look like a badly-dressed mummy.”

Bull took a moment to process that and then closed the distance between them. Once he was within reach, he grumbled, “Go on, then.”

Bull knew good and well how to apply bandages and tie knots even at the most difficult of angles. He’d done a sloppy job of it on purpose to give Krem a reason to get close to him again.

None the wiser to Bull’s ploy, Krem cautiously undid the mess and took a step back.

“You’re gonna have to sit down so I can reach you,” he said, and Bull gave him an inscrutable look.

Krem crinkled his nose, not sure how to react. “ _Please_?”

Bull took a moment to feign disinterest, but finally, heavily lowered himself the cave floor.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Krem said with obvious irreverence, and began to reapply the bandages to Bull’s eye.

The two of them sat there in silence as Krem worked, and The Iron Bull took the opportunity to take a longer, closer, more intimate look at Cremisius Aclassi.

The places where Krem's wet clothes clung to him-- and where they didn't-- confirmed Bull's lingering suspicions.

“Are all of you this big?” Krem distractedly asked to break the silence between them. “Qunari, I mean.”

Bull cast his gaze off to the side and chose his words carefully when he spoke. “I’m not big compared to other Qunari,” he said. “--just to scrawny, Tevinter-born _Aqun-Athlok_.”

Krem laughed at the foreign word. “Is that an insult?”

Bull looked back at Krem just as he finished knotting the last bit of cloth around his head.

“No,” he said, completely unguarded. “It means ‘born one gender, but living like another’.”

Krem’s blood suddenly went ice-cold, his breath hitching in his chest.

“It’s not derogatory,” Bull quickly added. “It’s just—“

“You watched me take off my binder,” Krem assumed and crawled back to put distance between them. He didn't dare take his eyes off of Bull. “You _knew_ that I—“

“It doesn’t take a Ben-Hassrath spy to figure out why someone would throw away perfectly good bandages after using them,” Bull said with a non-threatening shrug. “You've been wearing them since the day I found you in that tavern.” And then his expression softened again, the lines of his face pinched with confusion. “Is that the reason why those Tevinter soldiers tried to _kill_ you?”

Krem could feel his heart beating out frantic rhythms, not sure how much of his secret he could safely disclose.

“That’s not the only reason,” he answered. “But they would have killed me even if I hadn’t run away when they found out that I’m a—“

His voice died in his throat, his eyes widening in wondrous revelation. “There’s a _word_ for it.”

Tevene didn’t have a word to describe his gender, and neither did the common trade language, to his knowledge. But Qunlat _did_.

Krem suddenly went breathless with marvelous delight—his head spinning as the world as he knew it changed for the better.

“Aqun—Aqun—“

 _“Aqun-Athlok_ ,” Bull said again, patiently.

“Aqun… Athlok,” Krem repeated, fitting the unwieldly words around his tongue. “ _Aqun-Athlok_ … I can’t believe there’s--!”

Bull was on top of him before Krem could recollect his senses, and a slight jolt a fear wracked through him until a massive hand wrapped supportively around his back and Bull’s mouth found its way against his.

Krem returned the kiss in full.

Bull held Krem against him with one hand as they kissed, propping the two of them off the ground with the other as he got up on his knees. His massive, Qunari body rocked against him with each fervent kiss, and Krem struggled to keep up with Bull's helter-skelter pace while still keeping his balance.

Then, far too soon, Bull withdrew with a wretched look on his face.

“I’m sorry…” he muttered, not able to find the right words. “I shouldn’t…”

Krem held Bull’s face in his hands and shook his head. “ _I’m_ the one that should be sorry,” he said. “You lost an eye because of me, and now…”

Krem’s voice trailed and they held each other’s gaze as they both struggled for each nervous breath.

Bull, conflicted with emotion, pulled Krem into a strong, protective embrace. And Krem was suddenly overwhelmed by the musky, alluring odor and intense warmth against him. It was an astonishingly comforting feeling.

Being held—being _kissed_ \-- for who he truly was after so many years of half measures and compromise.

It felt so _right_.

So _overdue._

_And yet._

“Don’t stop,” pleaded Krem, surprised by the desperate yearning that he heard in his own voice. “ _Please_. I promise, I’m not afraid of--“

But before he could finish, Bull kissed him again-- harder this time—and Krem had enough sense to hold on as Bull steadily rutted against him.

Krem moaned against Bull’s mouth, slowly losing himself to the pleasure of each satiating thrust, and when he couldn’t hold on any more, Bull was there to lower him onto the ground.

“ _Don’t_ \-- Don’t stop…” Krem gasped, and when his vision cleared, he saw Bull hastily fumbling at his own leather belt.

Krem pushed himself off the ground and met the task with the expertise of someone who had made a living out of dressing and undressing other men. Bull’s pants fell free to the ground, and as Bull’s arm disappeared behind him, Krem felt something very large and very hard pressing against his thigh.

Bull roughly buried his mouth in the crook of Krem’s neck and brought the Tevinter man hard against his waist with a voracious groan. In no time Bull was grinding his hard cock against Krem and giving gluttonous, undulating grunts with each forceful stroke against Krem’s wet clothes.

Then Bull roughly slipped a hand past the hem of Krem’s pants and began to tease him from behind.

Krem clenched his teeth, fighting back the pleasure in his throat that wanted to be heard.

“ _Venhedis_ ,” Krem swore, his Tevinter accent getting thicker as he lost himself more and more to the pleasure of it. “ _Valla victoria kal—“_

Krem’s voice finally failed him, and he gave a loud, encouraging sound as he gripped at Bull’s sweat-slicked chest. But Bull’s hand alone was firm enough to keep Krem from falling and took on both tasks of keeping him balanced and circling the warm place that led inside him.

Krem was lightheaded, his chest heaving for breath, when Bull put him back down. His wet clothes were heavy as they clung to him, and he experienced a sudden, steadfast desire to remove them. He reached back, grabbing the back of his tunic, and lifted it over his head. It hit the stone floor with a loud smack, and Bull crawled on top of him with a hungry, beastly noise. He let out a rough, heated breath against Krem’s neck that made him tremble with bated anticipation.

“ _Turn over_ ,” he growled, and after giving Bull a hard, lingering kiss, Krem eagerly indulged him.

Just as he got to his hands and knees, Krem felt Bull’s mouth behind him, and a warm tongue slipping slowly into him. Krem gave a shuddering sound from deep in his chest and planted his forehead on the hard ground to fight the intoxicating dizziness that threatened to topple him.

“ _Kafaas_ …” he swore, feeling his eyes roll up into his head, his back arching with pleasure. And he gave a low, rolling groan as he felt Bull’s hand slide up his back.

Then he felt Bull prodding him with something far too large to fit inside him.

His eyes flying open with surprise, Krem blurted something out in Tevene.

Bull must have heard the apprehension in Krem's voice because after restraining himself, he said, “Just tell me what you want and I’ll—“

“I want _you_ ,” Krem said, his voice pitchy and fraught with worry. “ _I_ _want_ _you_ … It’s just—“

Before he could finish, Krem felt himself being hoisted around the torso and being brought firmly against Bull’s chest in one fluid motion. Bull found his mouth and kissed him deeply, and Krem was consoled by the wild pounding of Bull’s heart against his own.

Krem gave a soft, loving sound against Bull’s mouth and led the pace of their kissing into a slow, comforting rhythm. After their hearts had settled, Krem came up for air and pressed his forehead against Bull’s.

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ …” Krem whispered, his voice betraying a gentle sob.

Bull opened his eyes and saw Krem’s pained expression. A muscle in his jaw strained at the sight of it.

“What does that mean?” Bull asked, his voice low-- afraid of the answer he’d be given.

Krem gave a shuddering sigh. “You will be the death of me.”


	50. Of Nowhere to Turn

The memories that faded into dreams and back into memories eventually drifted into nothing but excruciating, merciless blackness. Krem groaned-- low and belabored-- his head feeling like it would split open at any moment as his consciousness broke through the unnatural haziness that had formed in his mind. There were rough voices all around him that didn’t register as anything more than pain on top of pain.

 _Make it stop_ , he thought. _Gotta make it stop._

Krem tried to move, but his arms were securely clinched together with rope behind his back.

_Shit._

Krem winced, forcing his eyes to open and take in his surroundings. Bright firelight assaulted him, compounding his headache, and he groaned again. But he noticed a few very important details before he reclosed his eyes.

There were about a dozen large, intimidating people in non-descript armor who stood around him. He was still in the sewers—he saw it in the stonework, smelled it in the air. And he was tied to a chair, his arms hitched together behind him.

“ _Shit_ ,” he moaned.

**_Smack!_ **

Krem sputtered, his head lolling to the side as his cheek fired up with pain.

“Wake up,” said a deep, callous voice. “I won’t ask as nicely the next time.”

Krem coughed and tasted blood, forcing himself to stir. He willed his way past the pounding headache and sat up straight. An unfamiliar, square-jawed human settled into view—just an inch away from his nose. He forced himself to look unafraid.

“Now then,” said his captor. “Give me the names of your team.”

Krem felt the traitorous words clawing their way up his throat, and he couldn’t stop them from tumbling off of his blood-slicked tongue.

“ _Fen… ris_ …”

He screwed his eyes shut until he felt hot tears.

“ _Varric… Tethras_ …”

He clenched his teeth shut until his jaw hurt.

“ _Garrett… Hawke_.”

When the horror of what he’d done settled on Krem’s face, his captor gave him a dark, satisfied grin.

“Who’s your leader?”

 “ _I don’t have one_.”

“What is your affiliation with The Inquisition?”

“ _There isn’t one_.”

“Who is coming to save you?”

“ _No one_.”

Krem felt himself trembling from head to toe as his voice betrayed him so easily, so completely, and he watched helplessly as his interrogator held up a small, empty vial.

“Truth serum,” the man explained with a thin, sinister grin. “Qunari-made. Powerful stuff.”

_Shit._

Krem wriggled his toes, but his shoes had been taken and hadn’t been replaced with anything. The man holding the vial watched him with a wickedly self-assured look.

“We found the scissors hidden in the lining of your shoes,” he said flatly, confidently. “Along with the lockpicks in your sleeves and the needles sewn into the hems of your pants.”

Krem choked down a foul-tasting breath, struggling to maintain his composure. But panic had its sharp talons in him, and the realization that he’d become nothing more than an unarmed, unchecked liability dug even deeper than the ropes that had been twisted tightly around him.

“So,” said his abductor, unshakable confidence exuding from him in waves as he loomed over him. “Did we find everything on you?”

Krem threw his head down and made a desperate, vulgar noise.

“ _No,”_ he spat out. “ _Left ear._ _Broken needle. Crafter’s glue.”_

A hand promptly reached behind his ear, felt for the hidden tool, then yanked hard. Krem groaned miserably and felt blood trickle down his neck. The armored man just gave a dry, surprised laugh and threw the messy needle away.

“Lots of precautions for a small, untrained team,” he growled. “You four can’t have been working alone. So who sent you?”

Krem felt a cold bead of sweat roll down his cheek. Then another down his nose.

“ _No one… sent us_.”

A closed-handed fist collided with Krem’s nose and broke it on impact. The chair, being bolted to the ground, hadn’t let the punch lose any of its force. Krem let out a grievous, nasally cry, and in no time at all blood was flowing freely down his nostrils—running past his lips-- dripping heavily off his chin. The tears came shortly after, silent and unabated. A chorus of cruel, derisive laughter surrounded him.

‘ _They’re going to kill me_ ,’ Krem thought, hopelessly. ‘ _I’m going to die here_.’

The rugged man who stood over him rubbed his bloody fist and took up a blade from a nearby table. It was one of Krem’s daggers. Krem caught a sideways glance at his belongings that had previously been hidden in his clothes. They were now piled up on the table— knives, sewing needles, lockpicks, the tiny, golden scissors, and the sword that had been given to him by Hawke. Then he felt the cold dagger pressing against throat, and he was overwhelmed by the obscene smell of his captor’s breath even over the thick odor of sewage.

“You are going to tell me _everything_ I want to know, whether you like it or not,” he said, roughly grabbing the back of Krem’s neck to hold him still. The sharpened steel bit down into Krem’s skin hard enough to draw blood-- rupturing the old bruises the lay beneath-- and Krem willed himself to not thrash against it. “So stop resisting and _tell me_ —“

**BANG!**

The walls and floor shook violently after the explosion-- a cloud of rubble falling from the rafters-- and Krem gave a guttural, terrified noise, fearing that his throat would be accidentally slit. But the dagger barely grazed the skin and his interrogator’s knife fell impossibly, safely away from his neck as the man stumbled to correct his footing.

“What are you idiots standing around for?!” he shouted to his cohorts, his back fully turned to Krem. “Go _check it out_!”

Before his captor could turn back around—as the armored sentinels were running en masse towards an open door in the opposite wall—Krem heard something or someone drop heavily behind him. He stifled a gasp, stiffening in his seat.

And then, miraculously, the rope that held him to the chair fell loosely to the ground.

There was no time—no reason-- to question it. Krem instinctively lunged for his sword and reclaimed it from the tabletop. His captor was still facing the door, focused on his subordinates that were fleeing the room.

‘ _This is it_ ,’ Krem thought. ‘ _I can kill him before he even turns around. It’ll be easy._ ’

It’d be _too_ easy.

“ _Hey_!” Krem yelled as loud as his broken nose and strained vocal chords would allow him, and his captor spun around, disbelief masking his ugly face. Krem scrambled up every bit of vengeful anger—of fervent courage—left inside of him. “Stand your ground and fight, you _fucking coward_!”

Krem watched with grisly satisfaction as his torturer's face twisted into a visage of unmistakable ire. An inhuman noise escaped the man, and he surged towards Krem with his dagger poised to attack. Krem ducked and weaved-- advancing in three, fluid steps—and swiped with his sword. The blade went straight through the man’s neck like a heated knife through butter, separating his head from his shoulders. The decapitated head fell to the stone floor with a sickening thud, and the rest of his body crumpled lifelessly with it in a pool of thick, scarlet blood. 

Krem panted for each ragged breath, his heartbeat driven into a frantic hum against his ribcage. And then he remembered that he wasn’t alone in the torture room. He rounded thoughtlessly, savagely on the person who had cut him free. His sword was raised in both hands to strike again through sheer force of the adrenaline still flooding his veins.

It was the last person he expected to see.

It was Isabela.

_Immaculate. Wonderful. Isabela._

Krem slowly lowered his sword as all of the white-hot, murderous energy washed out of him and was replaced by a sudden, absolute admiration for his rescuer.

“Don’t give me that look,” Isabela told him, a weak smile hanging on her features as she walked out from behind the chair. “What kind of admiral would I be if I left one of my men to die?”

Krem could scarcely find his breath.

“I could kiss you,” Krem said, the truth serum dragging the words out of him in a vertiginous rush.

Isabela stepped forward, her heeled leather boots winding through a clean path-- through the gore and the blood spatter-- without taking her eyes off Krem.

“Maybe later,” she said. “But right now we both have our work cut out for us.”

It took a second for her words to process, but Krem finally, sternly nodded.

“Make sure that the others are safe,” he said, his grip tightening on his sword. “I'm going to find my father."


	51. Of Mala Fides

It was difficult for Krem to keep track of how much time had lapsed in the sewers. There were no windows, just braziers on the stone walls filled with dim mage’s fire. Having been unable to find his shoes, Krem was forced to trudge through the sewer system’s filthy halls in his bare feet, an undertaking that didn’t become any more tolerable as time went on. But at least he had his weapons back. And his splitting headache was even beginning to taper off into a duller, more manageable kind of pain. It was the little victories that really mattered at this point, and Krem forced himself not to lose his conviction.

It wasn’t until it became unavoidably difficult to breathe that he threw his back against the wall and took a moment to collect himself. Even though he couldn’t keep up with how far he’d walked, it had been long enough to develop a nagging stitch in his side. It was then that Krem realized that he was stupidly, unavoidably lost.

“Shit…” he muttered, hitting the wall behind him with the side of his blood-stained fist.

Krem thought he would have at least found where the explosion had come from, but it had apparently attracted so much attention—and so quickly-- that practically everyone under the Arishok's command had gone to deal with it. Krem hadn’t run into any guards while stumbling through the halls, and hadn’t found any of the captive slaves, either. And he didn’t know whether to be grateful for the long stretch of vacant, labyrinthine halls or just flat-out frustrated.

‘ _It's times like these when I_ really _hate having bad spatial memory_ ,’ he thought.

Then, just as he was getting ready to head down yet another identical, empty hallway, Krem heard muffled voices and went on high alert. The voices were coming from behind a closed door not ten feet away from him. In a panicked rush, Krem ducked behind a nearby corner and went flat against the wall.

“—had to file one of our reports at a time like this,” said one of the voices as two armored figures emerged from the room.

Krem retrieved a dagger and clutched it close to his chest.

“Quit your complaining,” snapped the second as he locked the door behind them. “Intelligence gathering is part of the gig. If you just wanted to kill some mages, you should have joined the Templars.”

Krem’s angrily gripped at the dagger in his hand, forcing himself to stay poised and hidden from view.

“Well, come on, then,” replied the first, their heavy footfalls going away from the door—and away from Krem. “We’re needed at the south side of the base to deal with that weird cannonball attack.”

Krem’s mind reeled with the new information, conflicted with how to proceed.  Isabela’s crew had apparently been responsible for the explosion from before, and it had provided him and Isabela with the perfect diversion. Hopefully it had helped Hawke and the others, too.

‘ _I could easily trail these two stooges and join the fight on the south end_ ,” Krem thought. ‘ _But that won’t help our infiltration team… or my father. I need to find information_.’

And then, with a deep, collective breath, Krem made his final decision. Staying on the balls of his bare feet, he crept forward to get the jump on the two subordinates. Being careful to avoid splashing through puddles, Krem felt his ears ringing with each covert step as he quickly closed the distance between himself and the underlings. And when he was within arm’s length of the closest enemy, Krem grabbed him around the chin and snapped his neck in a single, violent motion. The other opponent spun on him before the broken body even hit the floor, but Krem had surprise on his side. Krem ducked down low and kicked the legs out from under him, pinned his knee into his chest, and sliced the man’s throat. It all happened within the span of a single breath.

With no time to lose, Krem pried open the dead man’s hand and retrieved the key. It was similar but not quite identical to the key that he had lifted off of the other guard. It was slightly smaller, but obviously made by the same locksmith. Throwing caution to the wind, he sprinted to the door that it had opened, unlocked the thing, and pushed it ajar.

Already lit with several magicked braziers, the unoccupied room that came into view was strikingly comparable to first one that their four-man team had infiltrated. Desks were piled with mountains of paperwork, walls were covered with detailed maps, and bookshelves were packed to bursting with loose-leaf parchment and documents. Unable to ignore an ominous feeling of déjà vu, Krem carefully locked the door behind him and went to work.

The thing that initially caught his attention was a giant map on the western wall. Krem approached it, and in a moment of dizzying relief, he realized that it was a detailed plot of the entire sewer system. Starting at an icon that marked the room that he was currently in, he fingered a path towards an area with bold, capitalized script that read: "The Cells".Krem allowed himself a moment of silent celebration before committing the path to memory. He ghosted the way no less than ten times with the tip of his finger to leave no room for error.

‘ _About damn time I made some progress_ _with this mission_ ,’ Krem thought, and decided to test his luck by taking a brief, last-minute look around the room for good measure.

As he circled the room, Krem skimmed over employees’ timetables, charts reflecting productivity and growth for the slavery ring, and a disturbing diagram of torture methods lying on one of the desks. He made his way towards a bookcase and removed a paper at random. It was one of the reports that the man Krem had killed in the hallway had been discussing with the other guy he had killed. He quickly scanned the thing for any pertinent information, and was surprised to find that “The Inquisition” came up several times throughout the document.

 **“Members of the Inquisition Open to Exploitation”** , read the header.

**“Leliana, The Inquisition’s spymaster, has strong romantic ties with the Hero of Ferelden.”**

**“Josephine Montilyet, The Inquisition’s chief ambassador, and heir to her disgraced family line, poses a unique opportunity for financial bribery.”**

**“Mother Giselle, one of The Inquisition’s many Revered Mothers, leaves the door to Haven’s Chantry unlocked during her nightly benedictions.”**

Krem felt a chill run through him as he realized that the document was full of classified intelligence that only someone who had been around since Haven would have been able to recall in such intimate detail. But the name of the endorsement at the bottom had been marked out heavily with ink.

‘ _Who the hell is sending these reports?_ ’ Krem wondered.

And then something even more horrific caught his attention.

It was his own name.

**“Cremisius Aclassi, member of The Bull’s Chargers, is currently stationed at Haven along with the rest of his mercenary team. SEE: ACLASSI.”**

The words on the page began shaking in front of him, and Krem slowly realized that it was his own hands that were unsettling the parchment. Krem was trembling, rattled to his very core at the thought of someone who was working with the Inquisitor laying out so many of her closest confidants’ secrets to the Arishok… including _him_. The mole couldn’t have been Leliana; she had been mentioned and detailed in the report. So who _was_ it?

Krem hastily rummaged through the contents of the bookshelf, suddenly grateful that everything was not only in the common tongue, but in alphabetical order. He easily found where the documents filed under ‘A’ were kept—near the top of the first bookcase—and dragged down a large paper that was sticking out from the rest. With the blood pounding loudly in his ears, he read it to himself.

**“A_____k,**

**This report details a subsection of The Inquisition that poses a significant threat to the security of your business practices—The Bull’s Chargers. I am actively compiling profiles on each member of the group and will be submitting them ASAP.”**

The report went on for several more verbose paragraphs, insisting that all of the information given was from verified, firsthand sources and could be taken as absolute fact. The parchment even laid out the entire timeline of the reports that would be submitted over the course of the next year.

Krem felt his chest heaving with anger, each breath coming hard and heavy. His fingers crumpled the page where he held it; he desperately scrounged for every bit of his own self-control not to tear the blasted paper in half. And once he finally reached the bottom of the page, he read the last handwritten word, and it may as well have been a sword through his gut for how it tore through him and brought him to his knees.

**_Hissrad_ **

Krem stared at the word, willing it to be a trick of the light—an illusion born of nothing but his own exhaustion and pain—but the devastating truth was right there in front of him.

Bull had betrayed them all.

Krem felt his stomach violently lurch, and when he fell to his hands, he wretched.

Coughing. Gasping. Crying.

The past eight years that he had known Bull had amassed to a world-crumbling betrayal that broke him beyond anything that he had ever experienced.

After what felt like a hellish eternity, Krem dragged himself to his feet and wiped his face clean of sweat and tears and blood. He pinched at his broken nose, and after a collective breath through his mouth, he forced it back into place with a sickening pop. The pain of it brought fresh tears to his eyes, but it galvanized him for what he had set out to do.

‘ _I’ll deal with Bull later_ ,’ Krem thought and drew his sword. ‘ _But right now, with Andraste as my witness, I’m going to find and kill the Arishok_.’


	52. Of An Uninvited Guest

Dorian had just moved the last of his possessions into Bull’s quarters when his lower back began to protest the exertion. The move had taken up the better part of the afternoon, and now he was officially living with his Qunari partner. Dorian’s suitcases—full to bursting-- had been piled high in whatever empty space he could find, which left little room for navigation. And interspersed among his own things were Bull’s meager belongings—blank parchment and an ink well on a study desk, an impressive store of boxed-and-bottled mead, spare Qunari-sized clothes strewn across the floor, and several large, sharp weapons leaning against a stone wall that had been marred by a collection of deep scratch marks. (Dorian had no intention to speculate on whether or not the scratches were intentional.) But what ended up stealing Dorian’s full attention was a mahogany wardrobe standing flush against a nearby, unlit wall. Indeed, if he weren’t so perceptive for such things, Dorian might have overlooked it altogether. But ever since his first visit to Bull’s lodgings, Dorian had wanted to rummage through it for himself. And now, with Bull off doing Maker-knows-what with the Inquisitor, he finally had his chance.

“Let us see what manner of things Bull keeps hidden away in his dresser…” he muttered to himself as he made his way across the cluttered room. And once he was standing in front of the wardrobe, he wasted no time in throwing open its heavy, wooden doors.

Lining the space inside the curious piece of furniture was what made up Bull’s modest collection of trousers, coats, and boots. But a translucent wisp of white fabric against a sea of dark textiles was what ultimately caught Dorian’s eye, and he brazenly pulled away the rest of Bull’s clothes to reveal a stunning, full-length, white-silk dress hidden away at the back of the wardrobe.

Dorian’s mind was suddenly scrambled with confusion. The dress was hauntingly familiar—how the hem was cut low in an elegant sort of way; the decorative flourish that drew attention to the shoulders-- but before he could reflect on his discovery, a dry, guttural voice called out from behind him.

“Been busy, Dorian?”

Dorian spun on the spot and gave a nervous laugh, raking a hand through his dark hair. The Iron Bull stood like a specter in the open doorway—a veritable goliath of inhuman fortitude silhouetted in the soft moonlight. It was more than enough to make Dorian’s heart skip a few beats.

“I have, actually,” Dorian finally answered. “I own more than three pairs of pants, after all.”

Bull couldn’t hide his grin, even in the pale moonlight, and he quietly closed the door behind him. With only half a thought, Dorian magically lit the braziers on the walls and the candle on Bull’s writing desk. The both of them were then illuminated in dull firelight.

“The dress isn’t mine,” Bull finally said, answering the unspoken question between them. “I’m just holding on to it.”

“For the Inquisitor?” Dorian asked, and more than a tinge of malice had weeded its way into his voice.

Bull’s expression went inscrutable.

“For Krem.”

Dorian went shamefaced at that, throwing his gaze to the dust-covered floor. He knew Bull had requested that all of Krem’s abandoned belongings be sent to him for safekeeping. But a _dress_? Why? Krem didn’t seem like the cross-dressing type, even in private.

Then a long-forgotten memory clicked in Dorian’s mind. A name came back to him from what felt like eons past and hit him over the head with a dizzying realization.

“It can’t be,” Dorian said to himself. “I _know_ that dress, but…”

Dorian’s voice trailed, and Bull traversed the room to join him in front of the wardrobe. Dorian’s thoughts were lulled into a haze as Bull filled his vision, and a large hand skimmed up the back of his sweat-heavy dress shirt.

“ _Kiss me_ , kadan.”

Bull’s low, husky voice made the hairs on Dorian’s neck stand on end in the best of ways, and Dorian’s consideration was suddenly drawn in two different directions-- one just as demanding as the other.

‘ _He’s distracting me_ ,’ Dorian thought, and a sizable part of him didn’t mind it.

Dorian’s fingers found their way up Bull’s bare chest as his brow furrowed in thought. And when Bull saw that Dorian still wasn’t completely thrown off the trail, he pulled the mage hard against him. Bull’s mouth roughly closed around Dorian’s and the flames that lit the room surged with misdirected vitality. Dorian returned the kiss, letting his hands find their way along the planes of Bull’s chest and around to his back as he fought to control himself.

“Careful, Bull,” he finally said, gasping for breath. “It isn’t wise to play with fire.”

Bull then grabbed the sides of Dorian’s dress shirt with both hands and ripped it off his body with a snarl. The tattered garment fell dramatically to the floor, and Dorian gave a surprised huff.

“I don’t know whether to be affronted or aroused,” he admitted, and Bull made the decision for him.

“Be aroused now,” Bull said, pulling Dorian close and planting rough kisses on his bare neck. “Be affronted later.”

Dorian gave a weak, unintentional moan as pleasure overtook him. And Bull began to pull Dorian away from the unlit alcove-- leading him towards the bedroom to continue their games-- but Dorian dug in his heels with a conflicted sigh.

“Bull…” Dorian said as he slowly, reluctantly withdrew from the Qunari. “We need to talk.”

Dorian saw a glimmer of panic in Bull’s dark eye, and it made Dorian’s chest ache.

“Nothing serious,” Dorian assured him. “Nothing bad.”

Bull seemed relieved to hear that, but only just.

“Is… Is anything troubling you?” Bull asked him, testing the dark and dangerous waters. But under all that restraint, Dorian could tell that Bull truly cared about his problems and wanted to fix them.

“Quite a few things have been troubling me lately,” Dorian admitted with a half-smile. “Like if I’ll ever get used to my clothes smelling like you, even when you’re gone… or if Krem will mind that I’ll be living with you once he—“

“ _Dorian.._.” The word was hard and painful-- like a kernel stuck in Bull’s throat.

It touched a sore nerve within Dorian.

“Don’t you ‘ _Dorian_ ’ me,” he retorted, all of the niceties from before gone without a trace. “You can’t just bury your troubles between the legs of the Inquisitor and just—“

“Actually, she was between _my_ legs,” Bull said, hiding his pain with a wry smile.

Dorian’s mustache quirked.

“You _did_ ask.”

“I am _certain_ that I didn’t,” Dorian slowly, testily responded. Then he sighed again in a mostly-successful attempt to calm himself. “I don’t mind that you had a one-night fling with the Inquisitor. We agreed to it. But you haven’t been yourself since Krem disappeared. You’re a basket of nerves—you’re drinking more alcohol than the tavern can supply-- and I want to know why.”

Bull tensed, and the sight of it made Dorian even more persistent.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Dorian said. “Something important. And it has to do with both Krem _and_ the Inquisitor. So what _is it_ , Bull?”

“I…” Bull muttered, his voice tight and unsteady. “I can’t tell you.”

Dorian glared at him. “You can’t _tell_ me.”

A stifling silence hung uncomfortably between them.

“No, not until Krem…” Bull’s breath hitched in his chest, and he struggled to compose himself. “Not until we learn what happened to him.”

Dorian considered that. “Then you’ll tell me?” he asked. “You’ll tell me _everything_?”

Bull didn’t respond for several moments, but then he pulled Dorian’s bare chest against his own.

“I will,” he promised, and kissed him.

After several minutes of indulging in each other’s company—their kissing and groping decidedly passing into the realm of indecency-- Dorian rested his head against Bull’s chest.

“Livia Herathinos,” he said-- still breathless from their foreplay-- and felt Bull flinch under his touch. “The girl whose dress you have hanging in your dresser. I danced with her—courted her at the behest of my mother. But she doesn’t go by that name any more, does she?”

“ _He_ ,” Bull corrected him, resolutely. “And that _isn’t_ his name.”

Dorian have gave a low, perceptive laugh. “The Herathinos name carries a lot of weight in Minrathous,” he mused. “But the Aclassi name _does_ suit him.” Dorian took a moment to collect his thoughts. “So when did Krem tell you all about his past life in Tevinter?”

Bull tried to distract himself with the feel of Dorian’s skin under his fingers, running his hand up and down between Dorian’s shoulder blades. It did wonders to calm his nerves—more than a cold bottle of mead ever could.

“He didn’t,” Bull confessed. “I… did some reconnaissance work before I made him my lieutenant.”

“You didn’t trust him?” Dorian asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“I’m a spy,” Bull grumbled. “I don’t trust anyone.”

Dorian smiled and touched Bull’s face. “That’s not true. For years you’ve trusted Krem with your life.” Then he brought Bull down for a kiss, and Bull kissed him back—hungrily, deeply. And when Dorian broke the kiss, he gently placed his hand over the sewn place on Bull’s chest. “And you’ve trusted me with your heart.”

Bull’s expression softened, and he swept Dorian into his arms. As they continued to kiss, he carried Dorian into his bedroom and lowered him onto the Qunari-sized bed. But just as he was climbing on top of Dorian and reaching for his own belt, Bull hesitated.

Dorian blinked. “Bull?”

Then Dorian saw something happen in Bull’s expression—a grim acknowledgment as his one uncovered eye cut towards the door. But when Bull brought his attention back to Dorian, he was back to his old self.

“Say my name again.”

Dorian went doe-eyed.

“Iron Bull…” he purred. “The most remarkable Qunari in all of Thedas.”

Dorian felt Bull smile against his lips as they kissed.

“Good,” Bull told him and smoothly undid Dorian’s work pants. “Keep going,” he said, his voice lowered and sultry. “And don’t be quiet about it. I’ll be right back.”

Dorian hid his slight disappointment as he pulled his erection out of his pants. And Bull gave him an affectionate wink as he silently disappeared into the foyer.

When he walked into the adjacent room and quietly closed the door behind him, Bull felt an unnatural chill despite the candle on his working desk and the braziers on the wall that were still lit.

‘ _A draft_ ,’ Bull shrewdly thought as he took up a short sword that was leaning against the wall. ‘ _Someone came in without knocking_.’

Taking care to step as lightly as possible with his bulking Qunari weight, he treaded towards the wardrobe in the corner of the room.

‘ _Closed shut_ ,” Bull thought, tightening the grip on his sword. ‘ _And if not by me or Dorian, then--_ ’

Nearly startled out of his concealment, Bull heard Dorian verbally progressing his erection through the stone wall. Lots of mentions of Bull’s name and sweet nothings about what they’d do together…

‘… _right after I greet our unwanted guest_ ,’ Bull thought.

Standing squarely in front of the wardrobe, Bull took a silent, collective breath, and readied his sword. Then he threw open the door and grabbed at whoever or whatever was inside.

A pathetic, choked noise was almost immediately smothered by Bull’s hand tightening around the trespasser’s throat.

‘ _Lucky shot_ ,’ Bull thought, and his blood-lust pulled up the corner of his mouth into a sadistic grin.

“ _Talk_ ,” he growled, tightening his hold. “Who sent you?”

The human inside sputtered under Bull’s hold. The poor sack of shit hadn’t even had time to draw a dagger. The genuine fear shining in his eyes—that gleam that only revealed itself when a man feared that he would soon be at death’s door-- told Bull that he was the only assassin that had managed to infiltrate Skyhold.

“The Arishok has taken your people captive, Hissrad,” he groaned. “Their deaths will serve as punishment for your disloyalty to the Qun.”

An ice-cold dread weighed down Bull's thoughts like the snag of an anchor thrown overboard.

_The Arishok knew that he was a double agent._

_And then there was Varric._

_And Krem_.

_They were all compromised._

With a furious shout, Bull lunged his sword through the assassin’s torso. The bright consternation in the assassin’s eyes immediately slipped into something much more serene. Then the assassin slumped and went still. Bull had seen it all countless times before, but this time was different. Killing the assassin hadn’t helped anything.

Bull had won his brief fight against the assassin, but the Arishok had won The Game.

* * *

 

Bloodied and ragged, Bull stumbled back into his bedroom. And Dorian stopped pumping at himself—snapped out of his preoccupied thoughts—once he saw the disheveled sight of his _amatus_.

“Don’t worry,” Bull said, but his voice was aggrieved and distant. “It’s not my blood.”

Dorian was at his feet at an instant. Naked and glistening with sweat, he rushed to Bull’s side and held his blood-stained face in his hands.

“Bull,” he said. “What the hell happened?”

Without saying anything, Bull pulled Dorian into a strong embrace. And Dorian tightly wrapped his arms around him in return.

“ _Krem_ ,” Bull breathed. “ _He’s alive_.”

Dorian pulled away from Bull and took in the sight of him. Even past the blood spatter and the obvious distress, there was an unmistakable glimmer of hope reflected in the Qunari’s lone, dark eye.

“He’s alive,” Bull said again, stronger this time. “And he’s going to make it.”


	53. Of Best-Kept Secrets

Bull made an impromptu stop at the tavern before he reported the assassin attack to the Inquisitor. He had told Dorian that he was going straight to her office, but he was far too sober to deal with the unfolding events of tonight… let alone discuss them with his boss. A small army of empty bottles stood on the counter before him within the hour, and with a drunken grunt he pushed himself to his feet and trudged towards the Inquisitor’s private quarters.

With a tired sigh, Bull knocked three times on the Inquisitor’s door. The noise reverberated off of the cold stone walls and tapered off into an uneasy silence. Bull could make out two muffled female voices from behind the door, and he had just enough time to bring his spying ear away from the door when it was pulled ajar.

Josephine stood— visibly exhausted in her golden blouse and dark blue pants-- with her clipboard in hand. The two of them were apparently working late into the night. And Bull knew from experience that it wasn’t the first all-nighter that the Inquisitor had pulled since the attack on Skyhold.

The Inquisition never seemed to sleep.

“Good evening, Ambassador,” he announced as if they were having this conversation under perfectly ordinary circumstances. “I’m sorry to disturb you both at such a late hour, but I have an urgent message for the Inquisitor.”

“Iron Bull…” Josephine gasped, taking in the grisly sight of him. “Are you--?”

“I’m fine,” he reassured her, his torso still spattered with dried-out gore. “You should see the other guy.”

Josephine gave him a small, relieved smile and moved aside to let him in. Bull stepped over the threshold and saw the Inquisitor at her study desk. Her back was fully to him—sitting in an intricate elven chair carved out of a single white-wood tree trunk-- and she made no effort to stop her quill or turn to face him.

“Inquisitor,” he called out to her in a solemn voice. “I regret to report that my cover has been compromised. I neutralized an assassin that broke into my living quarters tonight.”

The Inquisitor didn’t answer him at first, and Bull knew better than to repeat himself. So he and Josephine waited for her response in uncomfortable silence.

Then the Inquisitor gave a slow, heavy sigh.

“Well, that poses a myriad of problems,” she said and placed her quill back into its inkwell. “But I don’t have to tell _you_ that, do I?”

Bull rubbed at the nape of his neck, throwing his gaze to the stone floor. “No, boss.”

“Inquisitor.”

Solas’ sudden voice beside him jolted Bull to attention, and he realized just how much his nerves were still very much on edge since the incident with the assassin in his closet. It had been nearly enough to turn him fully sober, and he gave a frustrated sound from the back of his throat.

“Watch yourself, _katarash brak_ ,” Bull growled. “You almost became the second person I killed tonight.”

The elf stood there in non-descript, loose-fitting robes meant for reclining and relaxing, but the dark circles that encompassed his eyes gave away how little of both of those things that he had been able to enjoy as of late.

“Lightfooted corpse?” Solas questioned, translating the term from Qunlat to Common. “The Qunari certainly have grim turns of phrases.”

“If a Qunari steps lightly among allies,” Bull said quite matter-of-factly, “then they shouldn’t be trusted.”

Solas considered that for a moment. “And trust is a valuable commodity these days,” he said. “Please accept my apologies, Bull. Going forward, I will announce myself at the door.”

“That would be best,” Josephine attested. “Miscommunication is a deadly trap. And the Inquisition cannot afford such dangerous clashes of culture between the elves and the Qunari this late in The Game.”

At that, the Inquisitor finally swiveled her elven chair around to get a good look at them. Bright red strands of unkempt hair spilled out of her hairpiece like wilted wilds flowers; her face had become sunken and pale from days of staying locked away in her office. And yet her turquoise eyes still shot through the low light like smoldering veilfire.

“Make a written notice of it, Josephine,” the Inquisitor said in a hard, conclusive tone. “And tell the other Inquisition elves to not tiptoe around friendly Qunari.” Her expression suddenly went even darker. “Such precautions are what the times demand.”

“Right away, Inquisitor,” Josephine said, and scrawled a note on her clipboard.

“Now, Solas,” the Inquisitor said, reclining back in her chair with her fingers steepled. “Tell me about what you found while lurking around in the Fade this time. Did you happen upon the dreams of our missing runaways?”

“My most recent journey into the fade lasted just under 16 hours,” Solas replied. “And in that time I was able to locate a… _point of interest_.”

“Good,” the Inquisitor told him, her voice weary but patient. “ _Las dirtha_ , Solas. Give me your report.”

Solas gave her a nod-- his hands clasped gracefully behind his back-- and stepped forward.

“ _Dirth enaste_ , Inquisitor” he responded, and then projected his voice to everyone present. “After making their way to Kirkwall, Varric Tethras and the others found themselves in a Qunari slaver den under the city. It is unclear whether or not this was their intention. But it was here that their entire four-person group was captured by the Qunari.”

“And the essence of the anchor,” the Inquisitor impatiently questioned him. “Did it work?”

“The astral projection was a success,” Solas said. “The energy from your anchor allowed me to project my spirit out of the Fade, if only for a few minutes. This allowed me to follow one person completely undetected, and that person turned out to be Cremisius Aclassi.”

Bull was shaken to his core by this infuriatingly blasé and yet utterly remarkable statement from Solas. But the part of him that would always be Ben-Hassrath through-and-through couldn’t help but be amazed by this seemingly perfect spy tactic.

“You can shoot your spirit out of the Fade and follow people without them noticing you?”

Solas turned to him. “With the help of the Inquisitor’s anchor, yes,” he said. “It was a test run of sorts. I am still exploring the possibilities of it.”

“And you managed to find him?” Bull incredulously said, unable to say Krem’s name for fear of losing his composure entirely. “Across the Waking Sea? Under the entire city of Kirkwall? _From the Fade_?”

Solas gave a wry smirk. “I never said it was easy. Cremisius just happened to be sleeping when I connected with his spirit. And I followed it out of the Fade when he awoke.”

Bull felt his skin crawl at the implication of that method. Connecting with Krem’s spirit? In his dreams? It gave Bull a severe case of the heebie-jeebies.

“ _And_?” Bull asked, a thread of uninhibited desperation finding its way into his voice. “Is he…?”

The question lingered in the air between them, unfinished, and Solas looked like he was choosing his words carefully before he spoke.

“Alive, yes,” he finally answered. “Captured and tortured, but alive.”

Then Solas turned back to the Inquisitor.

“Cremisius was given a powerful truth serum by the Qunari,” he continued. “But he was asked all the wrong questions by his captor. No information was leaked to the enemy Qunari forces through him.”

The Inquisitor gave a shuddering breath, and hid her face in the palm of her hand. Bull could see her shoulders trembling from across the room.

“And then?” Josephine persisted on her behalf. “Did you see anything else?”

Solas paused again, and Bull sensed something oddly indecisive about it.

“No,” Solas said, conclusively. “Nothing else.”

“Then you’re dismissed,” the Inquisitor said, composing herself. “We have no way of knowing if they got to Varric or our prisoners. Post more guards on the ramparts. Tell Cullen to double the night watch, Josephine. I’d say that’s enough progress for tonight.”

Josephine looked as rattled as Bull felt, and when she passed him to leave the room, Bull stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. Surprised out of her thoughts, she snapped her chin up to look at him. Bull could see tears in the corners of her eyes.

“He’s gonna be okay,” he told her in a gentle, lowered voice. “I promise.”

The tears fell down her cheeks, and Josephine threw down her head to hide it.

“Thank you, Bull,” she said, and hurried out of the room.

“Is that all you have to report, Bull?” the Inquisitor asked.

Bull turned his attention back to her and stood at attention. “Yes, boss.”

“Then you’re dismissed. You too, Solas.”

“ _Ma nuvenin_ , Inquisitor,” Solas said, and took his leave.

Bull followed Solas out of the office, and it wasn’t until they had both wandered outside that Solas rounded on him in the courtyard. It wasn’t a threatening gesture, but it wasn’t a happy one, either. And it was enough to catch Bull off guard and back him against the tower wall.

“He knows, Bull,” Solas said, just loud enough for Bull to hear him in the deserted courtyard. “I followed Cremisius into bowels of the Arishok’s den while my spirit was projected through the Fade. He found your reports, and he _will_ seek retribution for your cooperation with the Arishok.”

Bull felt the cold stonework against his bare back, but that wasn’t what was chilling him to the bone.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Solas glared at him, his posture tightening into something much more aggressive.

“Because Cremisius is my _friend_ ,” Solas said, a strange sadness intermixing with his anger. “I’ve gone to him in the past for help and guidance, and he readily provided it. If his subconsciousness—his spirit-- hadn’t been so willing to reach out to me, I would never have found him in that labyrinthine city. Some small part of him _wanted_ me to find him.”

Bull blinked and brought himself to full height against the wall. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said in a low, heated voice. “Why are you telling _me_ this?”

Solas locked eyes with him, mentally weighing two impossible decisions.

“He dreamed of you,” Solas finally admitted. “It was… a memory. A personal interaction that you two shared in Seheron. It was never my intention to intrude on that memory, but it was the only way to navigate my way out of the Fade.”

Bull arrived at a sudden realization and fought to not lose control of his emotions. “And now he wants me dead.”

Solas gave a disparaging sound and prodded Bull’s chest with the end of his staff. It was a harmless, ribbing gesture.

“He cares deeply about you, Iron Bull,” he said. “I don’t think he’d ever want you dead.”

Bull felt his heart lurch in his chest, and foresaw another trip to the tavern before he returned to Dorian.

“Thank you, Solas,” he finally said. “Trusting a Ben-Hassrath can’t be easy, but believe me when I say that I’m nothing if not loyal to the Inquisition.”

“ _Ebasaam_ ,” he answered in Qunlat. _We all are._ “Just don’t make me regret keeping this from the Inquisitor.”

Solas turned on his heel, withdrawing his staff from the sewn spot on Bull’s chest, and trodded up the steps back towards his living quarters.

But Bull didn't let him get any further than that.

“Hey, Solas,” Bull suddenly called out to him, and Solas slowly turned back.

“Work on your Qunlat,” Bull teased with a forced smile. “Your emphasis is on the wrong syllables.”

Solas just gave him a congenial smirk, and vanished into the great hall.


	54. Of an Oasis in the Desert

“I certainly didn’t think that I would be spending the rest of my night watching you extract an assassin’s corpse from your wardrobe and then throw it over the ramparts,” Dorian admitted.

Bull gave an exasperated grunt and gracelessly chucked the cadaver over the wall, ass over teakettle. The unfortunate assassin rag-dolled through the air for several seconds before hitting the ground with a distant _thud_.

“What?" Bull quipped back, wiping the cold sweat from his brow with a forearm. "Not romantic enough for you?”

Dorian gave him a small, begrudging smile. The way that the moonlight contoured Bull’s muscles in the darkness nearly took his breath away.

“Assassination attempts don’t rank high on my list of my ideal romantic evenings, no,” he admitted. “But at least I have you all to myself now.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Bull’s mouth, and seeing it sent a spark electricity down Dorian’s spine.

“Tell me what you’ll do with me,” Bull said, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s waist and pulling the mage against him. “Then I’ll tie you down and make you beg me to let you do it.”

The night breeze played with Dorian’s hair as they embraced, and Dorian skimmed his hands over the planes of Bull’s bare chest as he fantasized about the rest of their night together.

“I’ll teach you some manners, you big drunkard,” Dorian said, unable to keep a smile off his face.

Bull’s self-assured grin spread across his features—crinkled the corners of his eyes and brought a high color to his cheeks. “No one’s ever been able to do that.”

Dorian gave a low, aroused laugh. “It just so happens that I’m up for the challenge.”

“Big words, Dorian,” Bull teased him, leaning in close to Dorian’s ear. “Let’s see if you can measure up.”

Their foreplay gaining speed, Dorian rose up on his toes and gave Bull a hard kiss on the mouth. Bull readily leaned into the kiss and slipped his tongue into Dorian’s mouth. Dorian gave an enthusiastic moan, and Bull lifted the mage into his arms as they kissed.

As Bull stepped over the threshold of their abode, Dorian withdrew from the kiss but still held on to Bull’s harness as he was carried towards the bedroom.

“I love you, _Amatus_ ,” he said. “But you smell like death. You’re covered from head to toe in the dried blood of someone that you killed several hours ago.”

Bull shot him a wry look. “Your ‘Little Dorian’ poking me in the chest doesn’t seem to mind it.”

Dorian’s lips went pursed. “Let’s go take a hot shower together,” he suggested, gently touching the side of Bull’s face. “We’re both fairly good at multitasking when it comes to these things.”

“ _Fairly_ good?” Bull retorted, pushing open the washroom door with his hip. “Speak for yourself.”

* * *

 

In a matter of minutes—and with a little help from Dorian’s fire magic—the two of them filled several iron buckets with hot water. The washroom quickly filled with thick steam, and Dorian’s skin began to prickle with sweat. His shirt clung to him as he tried to shrug it off, and Bull—already fully naked-- watched it all unfold while sitting on a small wooden stool from a stone-throw’s distance. Once he had kicked off his pants and underclothes, Dorian turned around and stuck out his chest for Bull like a preening peacock. The steam from the washroom made his tanned skin glisten with sweat, and Bull tilted his head-- letting his one hungry eye run up and down Dorian’s body.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Dorian said, picking up the handle of a nearby bucket full of warm water. “You look even more monstrous than usual.”

Bull gave a low laugh. “Let’s face it,” he said. “You’re the only ‘vint in all of Thedas who wants to be stuck in a washroom with me right now.”

Dorian set down the bucket beside Bull and pulled a wet sponge out of it. “I’d rather be stuck in the bedroom, to be honest,” he said, and started to scrub the dried remains of the assassin from his _amatus_ , and stopped at his sewn pectoral. “That’ll heal into another impressive scar,” Dorian continued with no shortage of sarcasm. “Might I suggest that you wear armor that actually covers your vital organs during our next mission?”

Bull scoffed. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Dorian didn’t look amused. “They struck a blow right over your heart,” he said. “A little deeper and it would have—“

“Qunari skin is tougher than the iron you humans use to slaughter each other,” Bull said. “Bloodstone barely leaves a scratch on it.”

“It was quite a scratch,” Dorian insisted, scrubbing the gore from Bull’s huge shoulders.

“I can handle it,” Bull grumbled, and reached down for the water bucket. He lifted the metal thing over his head and dumped it over himself. Dorian back-stepped out of the splash zone just in time, and watched the dark-red water fall off of Bull and disappear down the drain. It didn’t get the job completely done, but Bull was already looking more like his usual self.

“I trust that you can handle a great number of things,” Dorian wryly said, and took the sponge to Bull’s horns. “And on good days, multiple things at once.”

Bull smirked. “You’re in fine form tonight, Dorian,” he said in a lilted voice. “Just say the word and we can take this—“ He reached around Dorian’s waist with one hand and grabbed his firm ass. “— _back_ _to the bedroom_.”

Dorian gave an approving sound and steadied himself on Bull’s horns. “Why don’t we just start right here?” he asked in a low, sultry tone.

Bull repositioned himself on his tiny, wooden stool, and Dorian stood over him with his erection jumping at the ready. Bull—with one hand still cupping Dorian’s ass—took the shaft of Dorian’s erection and pumped at the foreskin without breaking eye contact with the naked mage. Dorian gripped at Bull’s horns, his breath starting to come in short, excited breaths.

“You big-horned tease,” he said through gritted teeth.

And then Dorian gasped as Bull slowly slipped the bulging erection into his mouth.

Bull pumped at Dorian, easily fitting it around his tongue, and Dorian gripped at Bull’s horns to keep his legs from giving out from under him. Every single time was always as amazing as their first to Dorian, and he eagerly thrusted into Bull’s mouth with a breathy whimper.

“ _Oh_ … Oh, Bull…” he moaned. “This is… _incredible_.”

Bull quickened his pace, savoring Dorian’s salty taste with each thrust.

Dorian’s sweaty hair had plastered to his forehead, but he could still see Bull’s impressive muscles working under him through thick strands of hair, and it sent a ticklish thrill through him.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” he muttered and wrapped his arms around Bull’s horns as his knees went weak.

Bull let Dorian loose from his mouth and stood with an excited groan. He grabbed Dorian by the wrists with one hand and dragged him to the wall. Bull forced Dorian against the stonework-- his bare ass in full view—and gave a deep, aroused sound at the sight of it.

A loud, wet smack rang out and Dorian let out an exhilarated shout. A bright red mark blossomed where Bull had slapped his ass, and Dorian trembled with excitement.

“ _Fuck me_ , Bull,” Dorian whined, gasping for each hot, labored breath. “ _Kaffas_. Just _fuck me_ already.”

Bull slapped the other side of Dorian’s ass, and Dorian whimpered again.

“Tell me how much you want it,” Bull said with an amused, predatory growl.

Dorian let out something between a laugh and a desperate groan.

“Please, Bull,” he begged. “ _Please_  just fuck me into the ground.”

Bull roughly grabbed Dorian’s ass with one hand and his shoulder with the other to hold him in place. Dorian bit his bottom lip, straining to look behind him.

And then he felt Bull’s thumb slip into him.

Dorian gave a breathy groan and punched the wall with the side of his fist. “ _Maker, yes_ …!”

Bull let his thumb clear the way, letting the washroom fill up with Dorian’s sweet, desperate cries, and then pushed in his stiffening erection. Dorian began pumping at himself as Bull thrusted into him.

“ _Dorian, you perfect piece of ass_ ,” Bull groaned with a deep plunge, and Dorian vocalized an echoic shout.

And after what felt to Bull like no time at all, Dorian climaxed on the wall. Bull withdrew himself from Dorian, and with a loud sound of exertion, he covered the floor with his load. Dorian’s legs wobbled beneath him, but Bull was there to sweep him into his arms and lock lips with him in a hard, passionate kiss. Dorian threw his arms around Bull and they lost themselves in the heated embrace. Dorian was the one who pulled away first, his dark eyes full of absolute adoration for Bull.

“Let’s go to bed,” Dorian suggested. “And do it all over again.”

Bull laughed and gently moved the hair out of his lover’s face. “You read my fucking mind, Dorian.”


	55. Of Bittersweet Reunions

With Hawke’s short sword tight in his grip, Krem sprinted deeper into the Arishok’s base of operations with unshakable determination. His echoing footsteps failed to alert any of the Arishok’s underlings to his location, and after several minutes of exploration, another earthshaking explosion toppled Krem into a nearby wall. He steadied himself and took a moment to catch his breath. Isabela’s crew was providing a welcomed diversion, but Krem worried that the entire sewer system would fall on top of him if they weren’t careful.

‘ _What a terrible way to die_ ,’ Krem dryly thought. ‘ _My clothes would be utterly ruined_.’

Krem coughed, his stomach suddenly doing nauseating somersaults inside of him, and he retched. Pink bile splashed into the river of sewage under his feet. His body had finally rejected the rest of the Qunari truth serum. Krem leaned against the wall and gasped for each painful breath, silently praying to Andraste for some sort of second wind to help in his fight against the Arishok. And after a few minutes of gathering his strength, Krem pushed himself off the wall and forced himself to keep running.

‘ _I have to be getting close_ ,’ he thought, and Krem finally spotted an open room at the end of the hallway that was alight with torch-fire. The room had no door and was completely unguarded. Krem couldn’t believe his luck.

Krem rushed into the room, and his senses were instantly assaulted with a smell even more repulsive than the rest of the sewer.

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” he swore as he recognized the stench of rotting human flesh.

Giant cages meant for animals were instead filled with sickly humans and elves. A few heads—the skin tight against their skulls-- lifted to get a look at him, but none of them said a word. Krem estimated that there were about a hundred people cramped into this small room-- more dead than alive-- and shuddered to think that there were any more of these slaves hidden away in the sewers under Kirkwall.

“I… I’m here to rescue you,” Krem announced, his chest heavy with shock. “Everything is going to be alright.”

Krem heard the words leave his throat, but even in his own ears, they sounded thin and unsure.

“ _Olivia_?”

Krem felt the word pierce him through his beating heart, and he spun to find the person who spoke it. As if on cue, a man emerged from the inky darkness and appeared at the bars of a nearby cage. His face was sunken and grizzled, but Krem would recognize it anywhere.

“ _Dad_?” Krem said, his chest hitching with emotion.

His father’s gentle, tired face smiled back at him from behind the bars of the cage. A single tear fell down his old cheek and disappeared into his grey beard.

“You’ve… _You’ve grown_!” Olivier exclaimed.

Krem choked back a sob and ran forward, pulling his father into a tight hug through the steel bars. It was like returning home—sharing a hug with his father for the first time in over eight years.

“ _Dad_!” Krem sobbed, trembling and clinging to his father for fear of losing him again. “Dad, you’re _alive_! And you’ve been waiting for help all this time! I’m… _I’m so sorry_!”

Krem buried his face in his father’s shoulder and sobbed like a heartbroken child. He felt his father’s bony hand go through his hair, and Krem ached—bone-deep—to be back in Tevinter with him again.

“Dearest heart,” Olivier laughed, his own voice shaking with relief. “Seeing you again—in this moment-- is the greatest blessing that Andraste has ever given me.”

Krem sniffled and wiped away his snot and tears to get a better look at his father. There was no doubt that it was him, but almost an entire decade of living as a slave had turned him into a shadow of the man that he once was. Visibly emaciated and aged what looked like twenty years, Olivier Aclassi still managed to beam back at him like the sun. And Krem forced himself to look strong.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he said with full confidence, “along with everyone else that the Arishok has imprisoned in Kirkwall.”

Olivier blinked with realization.

“ _Kirkwall_ …” he muttered. “No wonder this place smells like shit.”

Krem laughed—genuine and heartfelt.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he said.

Then the sewers rumbled from another explosion—closer this time. Bits of rubble fell from the ceiling in a cloud of dust, and Krem remembered that their plans to kill the Arishok were still unfinished.

“Dad, I need to go find my friends,” he hastily said. “They need my help as much as you do.”

Olivier’s eyes went bright with worry, but then he composed himself, wrapping two of his wrinkled hands around one of Krem's.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Olivier said with a reassuring twinkle in his eye. “Go, my child, and do what has to be done.”

 


	56. Of All or Nothing

_Dammit._

With every uneven step, Krem’s side screamed with an inescapable, stabbing pain.

_Dammit._

His bound chest couldn’t bring in enough oxygen to keep his vision clear.

_Dammit._

With a frustrated grunt, Krem threw his back against the thousandth identical wall that he had passed since his team first arrived in the sewers, his breath coming in shallow wheezes. He blinked the sweat from his brow and brought out a clean dagger.

‘ _Sorry about this… old friend_ ,’ he thought, and brought the knife’s tip up under his shirt. He raked across his binder in a one fast, diagonal swipe, and it fell away from him.

Krem let in a full, gasping breath. Then another. And then again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned, and shrugged off the sweat-heavy piece of fabric that he had fashioned for himself more than four years ago. The tattered garment-- its ruddy color dull from years of heavy use-- fell out from under his loose-fitting leathers and into the muck under his bare feet.

At least now he wouldn’t pass out from asphyxiation before he confronted the Arishok.

* * *

 

Krem bolted down one last hallway and found himself upon a living nightmare. Before him was a cavernous chamber—opening up beneath him by ten feet and above him by fifty feet. The room was stark white from floor to ceiling, and it took Krem several long moments before a sickening realization struck him. Thousands upon thousands of humanoid bones and skulls covered the concave walls in their entirety. Countless empty eye sockets stared back at him from all angles in a grotesque, ritualistic mosaic of death, and Krem lost his breath in horror at the sight of it. The only parts of the room not adorned with human remains were the ventilation shafts and the wooden rafters overhead.

Though the rest of him was numb with shock, Krem’s legs brought him further into the belly of the grafted mausoleum. He walked down a flight of stone stairs and towards a grisly altar in the middle of the room. The altar was blacker than night and as he approached a mischief of rats scurried down the thing and disappeared into a nearby grate to reveal a sacrificial victim laying on the dais. Gnawed flesh and exposed bone were sprawled in a vaguely human pose in front of him, and Krem could feel himself shaking with fear.

‘ _This person has been dead for days_ ,’ Krem thought, desperate for some reassurance. ‘ _It may be human, but at least it’s not Hawke_.’

Krem stumbled backwards, staring up at the wall of empty eyes staring back at him. And for the first time since arriving in Kirkwall, he wanted to cut his losses and retreat.

“ _Finally_ … One of the Inquisitor’s lap dogs comes to face me.”

The booming, unfamiliar voice struck a bright bolt of panic in Krem’s heart and he spun on the spot, strangling the hilt of Hawke’s short sword in his grip. A monstrous figure emerged from the distant shadows with his sights locked solely on Krem. And in that moment, every iota of Krem’s being was screaming for him to run for his life— everything from his pounding, concussed head down to his bare, aching feet-- and it took every scrap of courage left inside of him not to show it.

A ten-foot Qunari with giant horns that spiraled up from the base of his skull descended from the antechamber where Krem had entered just moments beforehand.

“Just look at you,” the voice continued—drawling and condescending. “Nothing but a snarling dog, biting at the heels of your betters.”

Krem tried to say something, but it felt like his throat was being crushed by an unseen force. He swallowed hard and tried again.

“I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done!” Krem shouted at him. “For  _everything_  that you’ve done!”

_For attacking Skyhold._

_For capturing my friends._

_For enslaving my father._

_For converting Bull—no, Hissrad-- back to the Qun._

Krem blinked back hot tears, fighting a sudden, white-hot desire to attack the Qunari head-on.

“Do you know who I am, boy?” the Qunari asked him, halting at the bottom of the stairs.

Krem could scarcely see past his anger. “You’re a monster,” he growled. And then, surprising himself, Krem laughed—low and manic. “But I’ve fought and won against bigger monsters than you.”

Krem could see now that his opponent was fully suited in Qunari armor—a bronze breastplate with matching gauntlets and graves-- and it sparked a memory in him of something that his estranged Chief had told him many years ago.

 _‘Why do you just wear pants and a harness when you fight_?’ Krem had asked him. ‘ _Why not armor?’_

It had been a muggy night in Seheron, just three weeks after they had met. Krem could still remember that night as if were yesterday-- resting in Bull’s arms under a blanket of stars.

 _‘I hope you never have to see me in Qunari armor, Krem,’_ Bull had told him. _‘It would mean I’d have to kill you.’_

"Such confidence," said Krem's adversary as he slowly withdrew a colossal two-handed battle axe from the sheath strapped to his back.

At the sight of it, Krem back-stepped out of pure instinct and felt his lower back hit the dais of the altar.

The Qunari poised himself to attack, looking like an unsurmountable wall of equal parts fortitude and brute strength. It made Krem feel distressingly unprepared without his maul, but he planted his feet and held his short sword at the ready, all the same.

“I am Commander Jarok, the unvanquished Arishok under the banner of the Qun,” said the axe-wielder. “And I am the thing that all monsters fear.”


	57. Of Losing Patience

The ambush party was positioned near a large river that wound through the Emerald Graves. The Inquisitor had an arrow notched in her elven-made bow and was hidden high up in a tree to scout out their target.

_“You’re sure this is where your contact said the Arishok’s spies would be setting up camp?”_

_“I’d stake my monthly earnings on it, boss.”_

_The Inquisitor had laughed at that._

_“I’ll keep that in mind.”_

Bull leaned against a nearby tree and ground his teeth as his nerves itched for a drink. He stretched the tense muscles in his neck and gave a low, aggravated sound that rumbled from his chest. He had noticed during the past couple days that it was starting to take more alcohol to get him drunk and less time to sober back up than usual. That’s what happens, he supposed, when you start drinking from the moment you wake up and take every opportunity to grab a drink during the day until you pass out that night.

“What’s the matter, Bull?”

Bull stifled a startled shout and glared at the blonde elven girl who was dangling upside-down from a low-hanging tree branch beside him.

“Dammit, Sera,” he growled. “Don’t you have a point to cover?”

Sera turned her nose at that.

“The Inquisitor told me to keep an eye on you,” she said with her arms casually crossed over her chest. “Told me you’ve been distracted lately. Seems to me like she was right.”

Bull scoffed.

“Did she forget to tell you,” he grumbled, “that you’re not supposed to let the person you’re spying on _know_ that they’re being spied on?”

Sera gave a nonchalant, upside-down shrug.

“Don’t know,” she said. “Don’t care.”

There was a small explosion in the distance and Bull tightened his grip on the shaft of his battle ax.

“Just get on point, Sera,” Bull hissed back at her. “It’s show time.”

Sera rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said, and disappeared into the foliage of the tree in no time flat.

Bull hastily rummaged into one of his pockets and pulled out a flask when he was sure that enough distance had been put between him and Sera. He popped the cork with a flick of his thumb and downed its contents with quick, ravenous gulps before hiding the empty thing back in his pants pocket. The dull buzz hit him in seconds, and his jittery nerves were immediately calmed down.

Then he saw the glint of an arrow shoot out of a tree across the river.

It was the Inquisitor’s signature cue for the party to attack.

Bull took a deep, excited breath and sprinted out of cover.

_Three spies._

_Non-descript rogue armor._

_Each armed with small blades and standard-issue daggers._

That’s what Bull’s last message from the Arishok had revealed. And both he and the Inquisitor knew that it would be too little, too late for the Arishok to try and call back his spies on such short notice. Now, instead of following the Arishok’s orders to aid the spies’ infiltration of Skyhold, Bull was going to help the Inquisitor give them a much different kind of welcome.

‘ _The marks know that something’s wrong_ ,’ Bull thought past the alcoholic haze forming in his brain. ‘ _Otherwise they wouldn’t be hiding in the underbrush like frightened rats._ ’

A backdraft of heat flared against Bull’s tough Qunari skin, and the surrounding undergrowth went up in flames. Dorian had cut off the spies’ escape routes with a ring of mage’s fire just as the Inquisitor had planned. And now it was up to the rest of them to hunt down the Arishok’s agents.

A twig snapped behind Bull, and before he even had a chance of ready his ax, an arrow whizzed between his horns. Bull glanced back and saw a small human in dark leathers sprawled on the ground with one of the Inquisitor’s arrows stuck through his neck.

One down, two to go.

“ _Shit-balls_!”

Sera’s shout gave away her position as she back-flipped clear out of a tree. One of the enemy daggers went deep into the trunk where her pointy ears had been just a fraction of a second earlier, and Sera wasted no time in letting loose an arrow in return. Her arrow pierced the leather armor of one of their remaining adversaries, and the unfortunate rogue fell lifelessly to the ground with the arrow’s shaft still sticking out of his torso. Sera landed on the balls of her feet at the base of the tree shortly after her enemy did, and she let out a sigh of relief. Then she spun to look at her teammate.

“Bull, behind you!”

Sera’s warning came just in time for Bull to swipe his battle ax in a counterattack. With his vision blurred and his reflexes slowed from the alcohol, the giant, Qunari-made weapon swung in a wide arc and lodged itself in an oak tree. His opponent had dodged the blow in a low crouch and lunged at Bull with a dagger at the ready. Bull didn’t have enough time to move out of the way, let alone reset his guard, and the dagger sunk deep into his gut. Bull groaned in pain and clumsily kicked towards the spy. The rogue easily avoided the kick and rolled out of range, into the tall grass. But before Bull could reclaim his ax from the tree, another arrow screamed past his ear and a deathly gurgle came from the brush.

Bull cursed under his breath in Qunlat, smothering his bleeding knife wound with one hand and yanking his ax free with the other. But before he could group up with his team, he heard the familiar bang of explosive powder and he was thrown back-first against the tree with enough force to punch the air from his lungs. Bull groaned again and felt the sticky ropes of a net wrapping him to the tree from head to toe. Only able to move his head far enough to look ahead, he saw the Inquisitor aiming the business end of an arrow right between his eyes.

“ _Traitor_!” she screamed with righteous fury as she pulled back the arrow to her bow’s full force. “You _let him_ get away, you _backstabbing_ \--!”

Before she could finish, Dorian valiantly dashed forward, putting himself between the Inquisitor and Bull with his arms defensively outstretched.

“ _Move_ , Dorian!” the Inquisitor ordered as she advanced on the two of them. “This is your only warning!”

Dorian didn’t flinch.

“I mean no disrespect, Inquisitor,” he said, his voice remarkably steady. “But if you intend on killing him, you’ll have to kill me first.”

Bull didn’t dare fight against his restraints. His inebriated mind was suddenly much more sober—and fearful-- than it had been during his fight with the rogue spy.

“Dorian, don’t!” he cried out to his _kadan_. “The Inquisitor won’t kill me yet.”

The Inquisitor’s arrow flew lightning-fast from her bow—through Dorian’s coiffed hair—and buried itself deep into the tree just above Bull’s head. The Inquisitor had another arrow notched before anyone realized what had happened.

“ _Try me_ ,” the Inquisitor dared, her voice seething with rage.

The forest went silent with furious tension as thick as black oil. Dorian and the Inquisitor stood at a stalemate—an immovable object standing in front of an unstoppable force. Bull’s racing heart was threating to pound straight through his ribcage.

“Dorian…” Sera finally gasped from nearby. “Just… stand down. _Please._ You need to trust the Inquisitor.”

Bull suddenly let go of his battle ax and it clattered to the hard ground.

“I won’t fight back,” he said with a measured, diplomatic attitude. “But you’ve got it all wrong, boss.”

The Inquisitor lowered her bow but didn’t go so far as to take away the arrow from its string. Dorian stepped aside to join Sera, but the tense set of his shoulders showed that he was ready to intervene again at the first sign of trouble.

“Don’t bullshit me,” she snarled. “That target was wide open and you dropped the fucking ball. I know a set-up when I see one, and you'd better believe that I won't let you pull one over on me.”

Bull felt a bullet of sweat run down his neck. He knew that he was firmly caught between a rock and a hard place. Or even worse-- between his armed boss and half a foot of solid tree bark.

“I fucked up,” Bull finally professed. “You’re not wrong about that. But it’s not because I was selling you out to the Arishok. Just look in my pocket and see for yourself.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed with distrust, but after a moment of deliberation she returned the arrow to her quiver and withdrew her bow. She approached Bull with utmost caution and patted down Bull’s parachute pants. When she found the abnormality, she plunged her hand into his pocket and pulled out his flask. She stared at it in heated silence and then slowly shifted her glare to Bull.

“Let me see if I have this right,” she said, her voice reedy with anger. “You’re telling me that you weren’t double-crossing me; you were _plastered_?”

Bull couldn’t bring himself to look at his boss out of absolute degradation.

“Inquisitor, I—"

**SMACK!**

The iron-plated end of the Inquisitor’s bow landed a devastating blow on Bull’s right cheek, and a flock of birds fled from a nearby tree at the brutal sound of metal hitting bone. The Inquisitor stood there, huffing with anger, and after several long moments she threw Bull’s flask with all her might down the river with a frantic yell. The flask landed in the water with a splash and drifted out of sight.

Bull didn’t move a muscle. He just focused on the sharp taste of blood filling his mouth and waited for the Inquisitor’s next blow.

It was all Dorian could do not to act on the horrible scene unfolding in front of him.

“Cut him down, Sera,” said the Inquisitor, breathless with anger. “And if he tries to run, put an arrow in his back.”


	58. Of A Spoonful of Sugar

The Iron Bull was escorted back to Skyhold a free man. And yet the Inquisitor’s order—to shoot to kill if he tried to run—was heavier than any shackles that she could have slapped on his wrists.

“Nothing personal, Bull,” Sera told him with an arrow trained at his back. “Just following orders.”

Once they returned to the Inquisition stronghold, Dorian threw all caution to the wind and approached his _amatus_.

Sera hesitantly turned to the Inquisitor for new orders, but she was only signaled to lower her bow.

“You really stepped in it this time,” Dorian told Bull. “There will be consequences.”

Bull held Dorian’s face in one hand and ran a thumb over his cheek.

“Yeah,” he answered. “But I’m glad that you—I don’t know what I would have done if—“

“Save it for after the Inquisitor is done with you,” Dorian said. “Honeyed words may work on me, but it’ll take more than that to make things right with the Herald of the Elven Gods.”

“Yeah,” Bull said again, his spirits slowly sinking into the ground. “I’ll… catch up with you later.”

Dorian pulled away from Bull’s embrace, letting the giant, Qunari hand fall away from his face.

“You had better,” Dorian said as he walked away.

And Bull swore that he caught a begrudging smirk under that unbelievably charming moustache before Dorian disappeared up the ramparts.

“Sera,” the Inquisitor said. “Meet with Josephine in my office and report to her what happened during today’s mission.”

The blonde elven girl shrugged off her quiver of arrows and rolled her aching shoulders. She was sore all over from keeping her bow drawn for the whole three hours it took for them to walk back to Skyhold.

“Alright,” she said. “Should I… I mean, yeah, I probably should, huh? Yeah. Okay.”

And with that, Sera spared Bull a withering look before she made her way to the upper courtyard.

Bull didn’t turn to look at the Inquisitor. He didn’t know if her bow was drawn or if she was gesturing for the guards to come put him in chains. So when a small elven hand touched his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Follow me, Bull,” she told him. “I need you to be honest with me, and I think I know the best way to get you talking.”

* * *

 

Bull could hardly believe his luck when he was led—not to the torture chambers-- but to Skyhold's tavern, and the Inquisitor ordered a round of beers for them both.

It was an Elvish brew—a blonde ale called _Calenae_.

The two of them sat at the bar as the sun began to set, and for the first time in a week, Bull left his drink completely untouched.

“You’re buying, by the way,” the Inquisitor told him and took a sip from her frothy mug.

“Naturally,” Bull guardedly responded.

“What’s wrong?” she chided him. “Are you too tough for a flowery beer like _Calenae_?”

The Inquisitor had let the word soak in her usually-tempered Elvish dialect before it hopped deftly off her tongue.

“You know that’s not it,” answered Bull.

“Then _drink_ ,” she told him. “That’s an order.”

Bull looked down into the amber drink in his mug and figured that he might as well make the most of this unconventional chastisement. He gave a deep, compromising sigh, and then took an even deeper swig from his cup.

It wasn’t half-bad.

And then, in a matter of moments, a wave of lightheadedness nearly made him lose his balance. He grabbed at the end of the bar top with both hands to keep from toppling off his stool.

“Damn,” he muttered, forcefully shaking his head. “I've heard rumors about that stuff from my Ben-Hassrath days, but… _shit_ , this feels good.”

The Inquisitor smiled into her drink and enjoyed another small taste of her beer.

“It has the same euphoric effect on elves,” she told him. “But a millennia of drinking it has built up our tolerance of it.”

Bull had hungrily finished his tankard even before she was done speaking.

“No wonder you seem so on top of things,” said Bull, a pleasant tingling running up and down his body. “If I had access to beer this good—“

“This is the first drink that I’ve had since the attack on Skyhold.”

The Inquisitor said it in such a solemn voice that Bull regretting having said anything about it.

“I haven’t been able to afford a moment of not being at my best,” she continued. “Not when one mistake could mean losing the lives of everyone under my command.”

Bull’s gaze fell to the floor.

“I can’t imagine what that must be like, boss,” he told her. “I promised you that nothing would affect my work, and I still jeopardized our mission. I’m sorry.”

The Inquisitor just shook her head and took a fuller sip from her tankard.

“I know that you’re worried about your lieutenant,” she said. “But you should have been honest with me about just how profoundly compromised you--”

“I _know_ , but Krem…” Bull tried to complete his thought, but his chest hitched, and he gestured to the barkeep for another drink. Once his tankard was refilled, he took another hearty drink of _Calenae_ and tried again. “It’s not just that Krem might not make it.”

Bull wasn’t sure if it was the strange alcohol or his guilt that was catching up to him, but he felt like it was finally time to come clean with the Inquisitor.

“Krem found it,” he finally admitted. “He found everything. Solas told me that while he was in the Fade he saw Krem in the Arishok’s base of operations. He knows that I’ve been sending information about members of the Inquisition to the Qunari in Kirkwall.”

The Inquisitor didn't seem at all phased by this revelation.

"I needed to give the Arishok enough information to not suspect that you might be a mole," she said. "Nothing that I approved for you to send would have endangered anyone in the Inquisition. Krem will see reason once we explain everything to him."

Bull fiercely gripped at the handle of his mug.

“You don't _understand_ ," he said, his voice slipping into a vicious snarl. "For _years_ I’ve tried to convince myself that I’m not Tal-Vashoth. I had to prove once and for all that I’m not just a mindless, self-interested _beast_ without the Qun… So I sold out my boys for the Inquisition's stalemated conquests in Kirkwall.”

The Inquisitor kept her careful gaze on him. And when she was worried that Bull’s anger would get the best of him, she covertly gestured for the barkeep.

Bull’s mug was so hastily replenished that the head of his beer spilled over onto the counter.

“Take another drink,” the Inquisitor told him in a level voice.

Bull could feel himself shaking, and he did as he was told. The shakes gradually subsided, and a gentle warmth filled him from his horns down to his feet. Bull’s heated resentment washed away into something much more docile, but a nagging guilt still tugged at him.

“I just… I hope that it was all worth it,” he finally said.

The Inquisitor put a supportive hand on Bull’s massive shoulder and finished her beer. 

"I hope so, too."


	59. Of Life and Death

The blood rang so loudly in Krem’s ears that he could barely hear his own thoughts. The weight of Hawke’s short sword felt like less than nothing in his grip as he faced down the colossal, armored Arishok. His panicked nerves screamed at him to charge at his adversary with his weapon at the ready, but he stubbornly stood his ground. This fight would be over before it began if he went with his instincts. He needed to think.

Think.

 _Think_ , goddamn it.

“Wait... You don’t have to kill me. I know I’ve already lost,” Krem said, nearly choking on the words. “Make me a _viddathari_.”

The Arishok’s advance halted at that.

“You?” he scoffed. “ _Viddathari_? The Qun has no use for you, boy.”

Krem straightened his posture, dropping his guard completely. “You’re wrong,” he insisted. “I travelled with a Qunari for years. I know exactly what it means to convert to the Qun.” Then he fell to both knees and disarmed, placing his sword on the ground next to him. “The Inquisition sent me across Thedas to do their dirty work, but I know that the Qun can offer so much more.” Krem hung his head in mock servility. “Give me to the re-educators. Free me of the Inquisition’s chains and let me serve the demands of the Qun. Better to be a Qunari than another discarded pawn of the damned Inquisitor.”

The following silence that hung over them was deafening.

Krem was just buying time. He had no intention of being re-educated by the Qun. But he needed more time. He _needed_ to find a better option than dying on his feet at the hands of the Arishok.

Jarok sheathed his battle ax onto his back and approached Krem with slow, measured steps. Krem gripped at the leathers that covered his legs and swallowed his pride as if it were bitter medicine. Then the Arishok stood over him—towering and victorious-- and kicked Krem's short sword out of reach. The weapon loudly skidded against the floor and came to rest near the annular stone wall.

“I have gathered many reports on you, _bas_ ,” said the Arishok. “I have read of your countless victories under the banner of the Inquisition, and I have long-since admired your mettle from afar. I was certain that you were destined to a lost cause and a meaningless death. But here you’ve sought me out and appealed to the demands of the Qun.”

Krem felt a gigantic hand gently caress his head and cup his chin. The intimacy of the gesture was somehow worse than the horrors that he had faced just moments beforehand in ritualistic combat. But Krem forced down his repulsion and let the sickening ruse play out to his advantage.

“Let me look at you.”

Krem set his jaw-- praying that the Arishok would mistake the gesture for conviction rather than loathing—and compliantly lifted his chin. The Arishok’s sharp eyes dragged over him, stopping at his throat, his shoulders, his chest. Commander Jarok’s thumb slowly brushed Krem’s cheek and the Qunari searched his eyes-- searched as if he were peering into Krem’s very soul.

“I see strength,” the Arishok admitted. “Strength beyond your breed. Humans so rarely comprehend the importance of the Qun.”

Then Krem saw a flicker of movement from the rafters—behind the Arishok. It was a glint of dark metal that caught his attention… and a shock of red hair. Krem stifled a gasp when he saw Varric give him reassuring signal. Bianca, his crossbow, was locked and loaded on his shoulder. Krem snapped his gaze back to the Arishok and he fought to control his breathing—his racing heart.

“My strength for the Qun,” he declared. “All of it is yours, _Commander_.”

The Arishok donned a black, triumphant grin, and it made Krem’s skin crawl under his leathers.

“Stand,” Jarok commanded. “And join me in Par Vollen. I will make a fearsome Qunari out of you.”

Krem’s mind raced; his heart-rate spiking in his chest. His eyes went back to Varric as blatantly as he dared and saw that the dwarf had a bolt locked and loaded in his crossbow. Krem could see the unmitigated hate in Varric’s eyes despite the vast distance between them.

Krem gave a sharp nod, and Varric fired.

There was an instantaneous, ear-splitting explosion, and Krem’s vision went stark white. He was thrown at bone-breaking speed against the black altar and collapsed at the base of it. Were it not for the intense, all-encompassing pain that followed, Krem would have been sure that he was dead.

The first sense that returned to him was his hearing.

A furious snarl from the Arishok.

Three explosive reports from Varric’s crossbow.

The metallic clanging of the Arishok’s helmet hitting the ground next to him.

 _Get up_ , said Bull’s ornery voice in his mind.

Krem forced his body to obey. His fingers were the first to respond, and he balled them into fists.

_I said get up!_

Krem gathered all the strength that was left in him and dragged himself to his hands and knees. His vision swam—refused to keep focus on anything. He shook his head to clear it.

 _Dammit, Krem,_ Bull’s voice resonated in his skull. _Get on your feet and fight!_

Krem pulled one foot under him against the protests of his screaming muscles. He took up his sword and staggered to his feet.

 _That's it,_ Bull’s voice encouraged him. _Don’t you dare die in this shithole._

Varric was swiftly sprinting across the rafters like a wild cat on the hunt. He let loose a barrage of arrows as he went, and the Arishok swung his battle ax to block them. Jarok succeeded in parrying them with each masterful swipe. Then Krem saw Varric take a deep breath—took a longer moment to aim—and fired. A bolt exploded where the Arishok held his weapon, and it was thrown from his grip.

“That’s all she wrote, Krem!” Varric called out to him, lowering his empty crossbow. “It’s up to you now! Give it everything you’ve got!”

The frenzied Arishok then rounded on Krem with a look of absolute vehemence.

‘ _Varric’s out of bolts_ ,’ Krem realized. ‘ _I have to finish it._ ’

Krem kicked off as fast as his legs could carry him and went for the Arishok’s discarded battle ax. The Arishok foresaw his plan and lowered his massive horns for a charge. Krem was nowhere near fast enough to outrun the Arishok, and halfway to his destination, he realized just how hopeless their endeavors had been since the beginning. The Arishok was already on top of him, and the merciless Qunari thrust his horns up in a devastating melee attack. Krem felt one of Arishok’s horns pierce his chest like a hot knife and rake up his body as if it were nothing. Krem went weightless—thrown into the air like a lifeless ragdoll—and time seemed to slow to a crawl.

 _Still picking the most obvious tactics,_  Bull’s voice chided him. _Even at the end._

And then the ground came up to meet him.

* * *

 

“KREM!” Varric desperately called out to him, and the Arishok corrected his posture with an arrogant lilt to his shoulders.

“How disappointing,” Jarok sneered as he beheld Krem’s broken body bleeding out on the stone floor. “Your death is the only thing that the Qun demands of you, _basalit-an_.”

Varric leaped down from the rafters and landed in a steady crouch near where one of his bolts had come to a rest. He snatched it off the ground and loaded his crossbow again. With a furious battle cry, Varric aimed Bianca at the Arishok and fired. The bolt ricocheted off of the Arishok’s natural headplate with an audible _clang_ , and Varric felt his stomach drop with horrible dismay.

The Arishok glared over his shoulder at Varric and gave a bloodthirsty growl.

“That will be the last mistake you ever make, dwarf,” Jarok snarled. Then the Arishok lowered his massive, horned head and rampaged towards him.

Varric was rooted to the spot. He knew there was no use in running. He just closed his eyes and mentally recited the last rites of the Andrastian faith:

_Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame._

Then there was the sound of metal slicing thick flesh, and two bodies hit the floor.

Varric waited for the death-dealing blow, but it never came. He cautiously opened one eye and couldn’t believe the scene that had played out in front of him. Hawke stood before him in a powerful stance—a Qunari-made greatsword locked in his grip—standing over the decapitated corpse of Commander Jarok.

“Hawke,” Varric gasped, absolutely elated. “You deus ex machina son-of-a-bitch.”

As Hawke turned to look back at Varric, he propped the impressive two-handed weapon on his shoulder with a confident, radiant smile.

“Couldn’t let you have all the glory,” Hawke said. “Just make sure to get all the details right in your next book about me.”

Varric smiled back at him. And then he remembered his fallen comrade.

“Krem!” he exclaimed and kicked off into a sprint towards the altar. With confusion written across his face, Hawke ran after him.

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke swore when he approached Krem’s mangled body and immediately began administering his medical magic on the gaping wound in his chest.

Krem was out cold, his face turning a deathly grey as he laid in a pool of his own crimson blood. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and Varric feared the worst.

“ _Hawke_ …” Varric fervently said. And for the first time in his life, he was at a complete loss for words.

“I know,” Hawke told him and poured his healing magic into Krem despite his utter exhaustion. “I might be able to stabilize him, but you need to go get help.”

Varric tore his gaze away from Krem and gave Hawke an earnest nod. The dwarf took up his crossbow and ran to find his remaining allies.

Then Hawke braced himself for the marathon to come-- of magically resuscitating his fallen friend.

“You did good, kid,” Hawke told Krem under his breath. “Just stay with me. You're gonna be alright.”


	60. Of Letting Bygones Be Bygones

Krem stood on the precipice of a snowy, mountainous cliff overlooking the Orlesian foothills. Everything seemed all too real and not real at all.

“If The Maker _does_ exist, He has blessed you beyond measure, Cremisius.”

Krem spun towards the friendly, familiar voice and saw Solas approaching him with his hands neatly folded behind his back. A rare, amused smile was spread across his face.

“Solas…” Krem sputtered. “Where--? How--?”

“Two excellent questions,” Solas responded, joining him at the sheer cliff. “Just outside Skyhold. And because you defeated the Arishok. Otherwise, this conversation would be nigh impossible.”

Krem gave a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “We… We _won_? But--”

“I have little time to explain,” said Solas. “There will be time for it in the future, but for now let’s just enjoy the present.”

Krem forced down his questions and looked off into the distance. Little towns and cities were stretched out before him like an intricate tapestry in the far distance. Everything seemed impeccably calm; peaceful, even. The screech of a hawk punctuated the silence and swooped down the mountainside to catch its prey. The world never before seemed so immense to him—so full of possibility.

“Up until now, I’ve always been happiest wherever I’ve been,” he told Solas. “But now I want to join Isabela’s crew as her first mate. I want to go back to Tevinter with my father. I want to make things right with Josephine and take her some place nice where we can be happy together. I want…”

_I want to see Bull again._

When Krem’s train of thought derailed, Solas got a thoughtful look on his face.

“The Inquisitor has unfinished business with you before you make any life-altering decisions,” he admitted. “Leliana is almost certainly waiting for you to wake at this very moment.”

Krem nearly choked on his tongue.

“ _Leliana_?” he blurted out. “What are you--?”

“I will speak with you again soon,” Solas promised him. “Congratulations. And welcome back.”

* * *

 

Krem took a gasping breath and shot upright—suddenly fully awake.

The very first thing he realized was just how easily his lungs had filled with clear, clean oxygen. He was no longer in the stinking belly of Kirkwall’s sewers, and his chest was no longer bound. Krem tried to recollect his rattled memories one-by-one, but a voice interrupted him.

“Try to run and I’ll make sure you don’t make it to the door.”

Krem knew that terse, unremitting voice, and his hands gripped at the bedsheets under him out of spite at the sound of it.

“Leliana,” he muttered dryly, his heartrate gradually settling in his chest. “Solas said you’d be here. So… are you here to kill me?”

Leliana glowered at him from his bedside, armed with nothing but a clipboard with parchment and a black-feathered writing quill.

“If I were here to kill you,” she said simply, “you’d already be dead.”

Krem thought about that, and then something even more disconcerting occurred to him.

“Your back is to the door,” he remarked. It was an amateur mistake. And even from what little Krem had learned about spying from Bull, he knew it to be true. “Has the Inquisitor’s spymaster lost her touch?”

Then Leliana’s expression went inexplicably sympathetic. “I wanted to make things easier for you when you regained consciousness.”

Krem blinked dumbly. “What are you--?”

Then the composition of the room he was in—a surgery room with white-stone walls—came into focus.

Well, _half_ of it did.

Krem instinctively touched his right eye and only felt the rough texture of gauze. His hand skimmed down his body and found that almost everything from the waist-up was covered with white medical tape under a loose-fitting medic robe. He touched his face again.

“My eye… It’s—“

“Damaged beyond repair,” Leliana finished for him, her voice back to its flat, professional tone. “What’s left of it is in a jar of embalming fluid.”

Perhaps on any other day this news would have been devastating. But right now, Krem was just thankful to still be drawing breath.

“So why are you here?” he growled at her. “Out of _everyone_ the Inquisitor could have sent—“

“I’m here to _debrief_ you, Cremisius,” Leliana interrupted him. “ _Astonishingly_ , the Inquisitor still thinks that you’re more valuable alive than dead. It is quite possibly the only point of disagreement that I have _ever_ had with her.”

Krem glared at her, refusing to let the precariousness of his situation get to him.

“And the others?” he asked. “What about Varric? Hawke? Fenris?”

_My dad?_

Leliana seemed to consider holding back that bit of information, but then she leaned back in her chair and smoothly crossed her legs.

“All alive and medically stable,” she told him. “And under the careful watch of the Inquisition.”

“And the Arishok’s prisoners?” Krem blurted out before he could stop himself. “Are they--?”

“Rescued,” Leliana replied. “Hospitalized. And offered sanctuary in Skyhold by the Inquisitor, herself. Once the Arishok was killed, it was only a matter of escorting the prisoners-- and your four-man team-- to Hightown's medic. Thanks be to The Maker.”

Krem gave a shaky sigh of relief. They had done it. The Arishok was dead and everyone who had survived his grotesque slavery ring had been liberated. It was enough to make him laugh out loud, and he felt a single, happy tear run down his left cheek.

“Lady of Perpetual Victory, your praises I sing,” he affirmed, and Leliana’s expression went softer at that.

“The Canticle of Exaltations,” Leliana noted. “I never realized that you were so devout. I would have noticed you offering up prayers in Skyhold’s chantry.”

Krem felt his back go warm with shame. “I haven’t been going as often as I should,” he admitted. “If I had, maybe I’d still have both my eyes in my head.”

Leliana actually smiled at that. And as soon as the smile appeared, it went back to a judicious scowl. Her calculating gaze went to the blank parchment on her lap and she readied her quill.

“Tell me everything,” she said. “From the beginning.”


	61. Of A New Lease on Life

Over the next couple days, Krem slowly but surely regained his health. And when he could finally get out of bed, his first visit was to the room where his father was being treated in the Kirkwall hospital. When Krem opened the door, he saw Olivier Aclassi sitting up in bed, gazing wistfully out an open window. The blue curtains flapped in a gentle breeze, and the light that shone bright in his father’s eyes was that of a man who had been given a new chance at life.

“Dad.”

Olivier instantly shifted his attention to Krem. And the look of peace on his father’s face was enough to bring tears to Krem’s eye.

“Don’t hold back,” said Olivier Aclassi. “I’m far too happy to cry over what’s in the past. You’ll have to cry for the both of us.”

Krem hastily swiped at his face and crossed the room.

“I’m happy, too,” Krem said, but his physical and emotional exhaustion tempered the evidence of it. “Considering everything, we made it out alright.”

There was a plate of steamed vegetables on a nightstand and Krem handed it to his father. Olivier Aclassi had always been a slim man, but his time as a slave had nearly brought him to death’s door, and it showed in his skeletal, malnourished frame.

“I’m sorry that your first meal as a free man had to be hospital food,” Krem said. “I know a place where we can get some Tevinter-style pasta together once we’re done in Kirkwall.”

Olivier took the plate of carrots and peas, but he didn’t touch his fork. He looked up at Krem—standing there in boxers with his robe open at the chest—and gave him a gentle, supportive smile.

“I should have been there for you,” Olivier said. “For your sister and your mother as well.”

Krem’s hands clenched and he threw his gaze to the stone floor.

“They’re both doing fine,” he told Olivier past an uncomfortable lump in his throat. “As far as I know. I haven’t seen either of them since…”

Krem went quiet at the sudden realization that he hadn’t seen anyone in his family in over _eight long years._ He knew it had been a long time, but…

“Ravioli.”

Krem was shaken from his thoughts, and he looked back at his father in surprise.

“I think I want my first _real_ meal to be ravioli,” Olivier said with a warm smile. “I have a feeling that we have a lot to talk about—just the two of us.”

* * *

 

_One week later…_

Krem was stuck at a crossroads in the form of the Fereldan seaport at the mouth of the Waking Sea. _The Siren’s Call_ was going to be headed out into the Amaranthine Ocean and back to Rivain at midday. The Inquisition’s ship— _The Sunbeam_ —was set to sail in the other direction at the same time, towards the Orlesian Mountains, and eventually, back to Skyhold. Another ship—a Tevene merchant’s ship called _Viridis Dracona_ —was returning to the Tevinter Imperium tomorrow morning, and its captain had offered Krem and his father a small cabin below decks earlier that week. And then there was Krem, standing on the docks with his suitcase over his shoulder, at a loss of which path to take.

 _You are no longer an official member of the Inquisition_ , Leliana had told him in the hospital. _You and your father are, unconditionally, free men. I have documented all the information from you that the Inquisitor has requested. You and Olivier Aclassi have been granted permission to board The Sunbeam-- to request further employment in Skyhold-- but the choice is entirely up to you._

Krem felt a strong hand clap his shoulder and he was jolted from his thoughts. Hawke stood next to him wearing a respectable three-piece travelling suit and a friendly smile.

“You look like you’re finally back to your old self, kid,” Hawke told him. Then he gave an awkward chuckle. “Well, minus one eye, of course.”

Krem had accompanied his father to Beneventi’s Boutique and Clothing Emporium yesterday and bought a leather eyepatch along with new travelling clothes. Krem and his father had spent the entire afternoon perusing Beneventi’s summer collections together and discussing how much fashions and styles had changed since Olivier was enslaved eight years ago.

“You’re headed back to Skyhold?” Krem asked him, casually avoiding the line of conversation.

Hawke grunted uneasily. “Yeah,” he said. “Fenris and I are still property of the Inquisition. The Inquisitor’s spymaster was very clear about her intentions to bring us back by force if necessary. I’d rather just go along with it than fight it.”

“And Fenris?”

Hawke smiled. “He’ll lighten up to it. Servitude isn’t that bad. It’s a lot better than imprisonment.”

Krem rubbed at the nape of his neck. “I figured Fenris would have had enough of servitude for one lifetime.”

“We won’t be slaves,” Hawke said. “More like… _indentured servants_.”

Krem raised an eyebrow at him.

Hawke just laughed. “It’ll be fine,” he assured Krem. “Really, it will. You can come with us! You’d be welcomed back like a hero.”

Krem shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t feel like a hero.”

Then he was shunted forward a step—a playful shove from a familiar rogue dwarf.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, big guy,” he said. Varric was wearing an open-chested shirt and durable work pants with his trusty crossbow resting on his shoulder. “For a second there, I thought you were a goner.”

“Yeah, me too,” Krem admitted. “My father told me that he appreciates the Inquisitor’s invitation, but he’s planning on going back home to Tevinter. I’m sure my mother and little sister will be overjoyed to see him again.”

Varric considered that for a moment. “Are you going with him? Isabela said you can go with her, if _that’s_ what you want. After your fight with the Arishok, it wouldn’t be difficult to get a recommendation to join the Rivaini navy.” He gave Krem a sly wink. “I’m sure a certain pirate captain would put in a good word for you.”

Krem couldn’t help but smile at the thought. “To be honest,” he said. “I don’t think a life at sea would agree with me.”

Varric just shrugged. “The world is your oyster,” he said. “Crack it open however you want.”

Krem spat out a laugh at that. “Thanks, Varric. I’ll… keep that in mind.”

An hour later, after Varric and others had boarded _The Sunbeam_ , Olivier Aclassi joined Krem on the docks. 

“Have you made your decision?” Olivier asked him. “Time is running short.”

Krem looked out to sea, his heart painfully tugged in two opposite directions. It was an impossible decision, and neither choice felt entirely right.

“I...” Krem muttered. “I can’t go home yet.”

The words scraped his throat as he said them, and he slowly shook his head to galvanize his resolve.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t just leave things the way they are in Skyhold.”

If Olivier was at all disappointed at Krem’s decision, it didn’t show. He just nodded and reached up to hold Krem’s face in his hands.

“Follow your heart, Krem,” Olivier told him, saying the name as if he had used it since the day Krem was born. “No matter what you do, know that I will _always_ be proud to call you my son.”

Krem’s heart soared, and he rushed forward to pull his father in a tight hug. He dropped his suitcase and it clattered to the ground, its contents springing out in a cluttered mess. Krem ignored it and hid his face in his father’s clothes with a delighted laugh. All that mattered in that moment was his father’s unconditional acceptance. It was happiness the likes of which he had never dared hope to experience. Olivier hugged him back, and Krem felt his father's shoulders trembling under their fierce embrace. 

“I love you, dad,” Krem said, unable to stop his tears. “I’ll come visit someday soon. _I promise_.”


End file.
